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ALONE 


ALONE 


(A  Beautiful  Land  of  Dreams  ) 


GEORGE  WESLEY  DAVIS 

Author  of 

The  Dance  of  Death,  Acadia,  Sketches  of  Butte 
The  Soul  of  Octavia,  Etc. 


TIMES-MIRROR  PRESS 


10S  ANGELES 


Copyright.  1922 

b* 

Times- Mirror  Press 

Los  Angeles,  California 
All  rights  reserved 


S 


FOREWORD 

All  the  world  over  the  word  California  seems 
symbolic  of  sunshine  and  flowers.  The  won 
derful  state  that  lies  alone  beside  the  Pacific 
welcomes  the  stranger  with  the  warm,  soft 
breath  of  spring  and  is  truly  "a  world  beau 
tiful'  ';  a  land  where  the  romantist  dreams  by 
night  and  by  day,  still, — amid  the  wonderful 
beauty,  there  is  startling  romance  and  tragedy. 

I  shall  take  the  reader  on  the  desert  that  lies 
to  the  East,  and  we  will  sit  on  the  Palisades 
that  look  down  upon  the  ocean  that  lies  to  the 
West.  We  will  spend  a  night  in  a  Gypsy  camp 
where  the  picturesque  descendants  of  the  old 
Romany  tribes  are,  and  we  will  visit  the  semi- 
ruins  of  an  old  Spanish  Mission  and  listen  to 
the  wonderful  stories  of  an  aged  padre  who 
still  holds  services  there.  He  will  show  us 
through  the  quaint  garden  and  a  cemetery,  and 
the  reader  will  see  in  the  latter  Bret  Harte's 
description  of  the  cemetery  at  the  Mission 
Dolores. 

I  shall  take  the  reader  to  a  dance  of  all 
nations,  and  there  witness  the  " Andalusia/' 


the  most  famous  of  Spanish  dances,  and  to 
make  my  pen  picture  true  and  follow  the 
romance,  the  readers  must  pardon  my  taking 
them  where  tragedy,  romance  and  social  decep 
tion  exists. 

G.  W.  D. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Foreword   5 

The  Palisades 11 

Chapter 

I    At  Eventide 13 

II    The  Stranger  at  Govante  Pier 21 

III  The  Writer  Meets  Aunt  Mary  on  the 

Palisades 28 

IV  Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz 

at  the  Old  Mission 43 

V    A  Night  in  a  Gypsy  Camp 58 

VI    He  Named  Them  "The  Foot-Hills  of 

Heaven" 66 

VII    A  Night  Ghosts  Walk 78 

VIII    The  Confession 89 

IX    He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings 94 

X    A  Dance  of  All  Nations 107 

XI    Swept  Away  in  the  Surf 124 

XII    Moonlight  and  the  "Ave  Maria" 128 

XIII  In  the  Shade  of  a  Yucca  Palm 133 

XIV  They    Talked    Through   the    Long 

Hours  of  Night „ 142 

XV    Merle  Writes  to  Father  Diaz 153 

XVI    A  Few  Years  Later ....157 


ALONE 


THE  PALISADES 

Let  me  sit  and  dream  on  the  Palisades, 
Where  the  sea  and  mountains  meet ; 
Where  song-birds  carol  amid  fragrant  bloom 
And  breakers  dash  at  my  feet. 

Give  me  the  old  rustic  bench 

At  twilight  or  the  break-o  '-day, 

And  there  let  me  drink  in  the  pure  sea  air 

And  drive  all  cares  away. 

From  that  rustic  seat  on  the  Palisades 

I  watch  the  sun  go  "down ; 

While  listening  to  the  warblers'  good-night  chirp, 

And  the  mighty  breakers  sound. 

I  love  the  twilight  as  it  lingers  long 

Then  fades  to  purple  dusk  of  night ; 

The  balmy  air  from  the  sea  below 

And  the  breath  of  flowers  hidden  from  sight. 

And  from  that  same  old  rustic  bench 
I  watch  the  birth  of  day 
As  the  sun  comes  up  with  its  golden  rays 
To  drive  the  mist  away. 

I  listen  to  birds  salute  with  their  songs 
The  new  and  balmy  day ; 
And  watch  flowers  open  their  bright  petals 
And  waft  perfume  to  the  heavens  far  away. 


12  Alone 

Give  me  the  old  rustic  bench  on  the  Palisades 
While  morning  light  comes  o  'er  the  lea ; 
Or  in  the  crimson  glow  of  the  close  of  day 
When  the  sun  kisses  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  ONE 
AT  EVENTIDE 

It  was  the  dream  hour  of  the  day,  a  time 
when  the  golden  poppy,  like  a  benediction, 
leans  its  head  towards  the  setting  sun  and  folds 
its  leaves  for  the  night,  and  while  a  stranger 
quietly  passed  along  the  bloom-lined  paths  on 
the  Palisades,  the  lavender  moss  that  clings  to 
the  crags,  like  a  tired  child,  slowly  closed  its 
petals  and  fell  asleep. 

He  was  idly  strolling  towards  an  incline 
that  led  to  the  ocean  promenade,  a  walk  that 
stretches  far  to  the  south  in  its  winding  path 
on  the  drifted  sands.  He  loved  life  and  stopped 
now  and  then  to  listen  to  a  mocking-bird  carol 
and  the  orioles  chatter  with  their  mates  who 
were  nesting  in  nearby  trees.  As  he  slowly 
walked  along,  the  low  hills  took  on  a  mystic 
coloring,  and  when  he  reached  the  placid  sea 
with  its  many  twilight  hues  intense  and  fascin 
ating  in  shimmering  mystery,  cottagers  were 
standing  in  their  doorways  silently  watching 
the  sun-glow  and  golden  sheen  of  the  waters 
blend  into  crimson  purple  while  the  sun  slowly 
and  mysteriously  passed  from  sight. 


14  Alone 

"It  is  all  so  beautiful,"  he  mused,  as  he  drew 
his  cloak  over  his  shoulders  and  silently  passed 
on  down  the  concrete  walk  where,  in  the  dis 
tance,  lights  of  a  pleasure  resort  were  breaking 
forth,  and  the  reflections  from  lights  of  the 
promenade  made  tints  of  jade  and  old  rose  in 
the  breakers  that  came  close  to  his  feet.  His 
hair  was  prematurely  grey,  but  his  lips  and 
eyes  told  that  he  was  in  the  most  interesting 
period  of  life.  His  carriage  was  not  that  of  a 
youth,  but  of  one  who  knew  and  appreciated  life 
in  its  fullest.  "I'll  stop  for  a  few  moments 
and  rest,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  took  a  seat 
on  a  rustic  bench  that  faced  the  sea.  The  tints 
of  twilight  were  like  the  blending  of  sunlight 
and  moonlight,  and  he  sat  fascinated  by  the 
wonderful  color  effects  in  the  water. 

Soon  an  old  woman,  leaning  heavily  on  a 
staff,  came  and  sat  on  the  same  resting-place. 

"You  don't  mind  my  sitting  here,  do  you?" 
she  asked,  in  mild,  pleasing  tones,  as  she  placed 
at  her  feet  a  small  basket.  "I've  a  crippled 
sea-gull  in  the  basket,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  tak 
ing  it  home  to  mend  its  wing. ' ' 

The  stranger  intently  watched  her  as  she 
removed  her  shawl  and  wrapped  it  around  the 
basket.  "It  might  be  cold,"  she  said,  without 


At  Eventide  15 

looking  up.  "It  gets  cold  here  in  California 
when  the  sun  goes  down." 

Her  attire  was  in  marked  contrast  to  her  well 
modulated  voice.  Her  clothes  looked  neat, 
but  the  many  patches  spoke  of  almost  extreme 
poverty,  and  he  at  once  became  interested  and 
sat  silently  looking  on  as  she  again  placed  the 
basket  at  her  feet. 

"Would  you  like  to  buy  some  shoe  strings!" 
she  asked  as  she  raised  her  head  and  pushed 
back  a  lock  of  grey  hair  that  had  fallen  over  her 
forehead.  Her  unsteady  hands  were  twisted 
by  rheumatism  and  it  seemed  an  effort  for  her 
to  open  a  small  bag  she  carried  on  her  arm. 

"Are  you  obliged  to  sell  these  things  in 
order  to  live!"  he  asked  seriously. 

*  *  No, ' '  she  answered,  * '  I  have  a  little  money 
in  the  bank,  but  do  this  to  keep  from  thinking 
too  much  of  the  past,  and  then  again  I  am  all 
alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  help  comfort 
my  life,  and  I  must  prepare  for  years  that  may 
come." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  gazing  into  space  and 
then  turned  and  faced  the  stranger.  "You 
are  a  stranger,"  she  said  as  she  took  notice  of 
his  garments.  "I  walked  behind  you  for  some 
time  before  you  sat  down." 

He  smiled  but  did  not  answer  the  question. 


16  Alone 

"Your  whole  bearing  is  that  of  an  officer," 
she  continued,  as  she  moved  closer  and  placed 
her  trembling  withered  hand  on  his  cloak. 
"The  Navy!"  she  smiled. 

"No;  I  am  just  a  writer  drifting  around 
looking  for  material,"  he  quietly  answered, 
while  watching  the  sad  face  beside  him. 

"Are  you  alone?"  was  her  next  question. 

"Yes,  as  you  say  you  are,  and  as  your  beau 
tiful  state  stands  here  alone  with  the  waters  of 
the  Pacific  kissing  the  picturesque  shores  of  the 
west,  and  to  the  east  lie  the  sands  of  the  desert. 
I  have  been  in  California  many  times, ' '  he  con 
tinued.  "I  love  the  Gypsy  life  you  lead  here 
in  the  Golden  West.  The  first  time  I  came  we 
traveled  over  a  great  desert  and  then  for  hours 
under  snow-sheds,  and  at  last  our  train  pulled 
out  into  the  bright  sunlight,  and  from  the  top  of 
a  mountain  range  we  looked  down  upon  what 
seemed  to  be  paradise.  This  last  time  I  came, 
the  train  passed  through  cuts  in  sand-dunes,  and 
on  over  drifted  sands  where  the  cactus  grows, 
and  no  water  is;  but  much  smell  of  hot  sand, 
and  at  last — without  warning  of  a  vast  change 
— the  delicate  perfume  of  orange  blossoms 
came  to  us  and  in  a  few  moments  we  were  pass 
ing  through  groves  where  the  blossoms  with 
green  and  ripe  fruit  hang  from  the  trees  at  the 


At  Eventide  17 

same  time.  Fences  and  nearby  piazzas  were 
shaded  by  crimson  and  white  ramblers,  and 
roofs  of  many  bungalows  were  almost  hidden 
by  flowering  vines,"  and  he  told  of  having  seen 
an  artistic  cottage  painted  in  light  grey,  and 
how — over  part  of  the  roof  that  also  was  grey 
— the  dashing  purple  bougainvillea  grew,  "and 
it  fell  in  such  graceful  festoons  at  the  corner 
of  the  porch,"  he  said,  "and  it  seemed  like 
traveling  through  a  wonderful  bouquet  with 
never  ceasing  fascination,  and  I  remember 
passing  a  terraced  place  where  the  graceful 
branches  of  a  Babylonian  Willow  drooped  and 
shaded  a  sparkling  fountain,  and  now  on  this 
side  of  the  state  we  look  out  on  the  vast  ex 
panse  of  the  wonderful  Pacific,  and  when  I  am 
here  in  California  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  born 
again  and  had  left  all  sorrow  and  strife  in  the 
former  life. ' '  And  the  old  lips  parted  in  smiles 
when  he  told  of  his  love  for  the  beautiful  land 
that  lies  alone  between  the  sunrise  and  the  sea. 
"My  friend,  you  are  right";  spoke  the 
withered  lips  of  the  old  woman.  "Many 
weighted  down  by  sorrows  and  with  heart 
strings  about  to  break,  come  here  to  build  up, 
or  amid  the  beautiful  scenes,  lighten  the 
burden  they  carry,  for  who  could  not  help  see 
ing  'a  world  beautiful'  here  in  this  land  of  sun- 


18  Alone 

shine  and  flowers  wjhere  we  seem  so  near  to 
God." 

"It  is  a  fascinating  land,"  he  answered,  and 
again  sat  silently  listening  to  the  soft,  eupho 
nious  voice  of  the  old  woman,  and  when  she 
finished  speaking,  he  told  her  of  his  work,  and 
how  his  desk  in  his  hotel  stood  by  a  window 
that  looked  out  on  attractive  grounds.  "I 
often  tire, ' '  he  said,  ' l  and  lean  back  in  my  chair 
and  dream,  and  in  my  dream  I  listen  to  the 
birds  sing  and  twitter  in  a  Camphor  tree  close 
by,  and  from  where  I  sit  I  look  out  upon  a  tall 
Canary  palm  with  long,  graceful  branches, 
over  which  a  Passion  vine  grows,  and  when  in 
bloom  is  ravishingly  beautiful,  but  at  all  times 
a  poem  in  itself,  and  at  night  I  often  lay  and 
listen  to  the  mocking-bird's  midnight  song.  I 
love  to  come  here  and  bathe  my  thoughts  in  the 
freedom  and  good  fellowship  that  exist  in 
this  far  western  state." 

'  *  Yes ;  you  are  right.  California  does  stand 
alone,  and  oh !  so  beautiful, ' '  was  the  only  com 
ment  she  made. 

"Why  am  I  talking  so  freely  with  just  a 
wanderer,"  he  thought,  as  he  sat  watching  the 
interesting  face  of  the  little  woman.  "Her 
life,  I  believe,  would  be  an  interesting  story  if 
one  could  get  at  it,"  he  mused.  "At  times 


At  Eventide  19 

she  seems  evasive,"  he  thought,  "and  then 
again  there  is  something  about  her  that 
encourages  conversation,"  and  he  found  him 
self  wondering  if  age  bent  the  frail  figure  and 
whitened  the  hair.  He  studied  her  closely  as 
she  spoke,  and  as  he  listened  he  became  more 
uncertain. 

"If  you  are  here  looking  for  a  story  you  will 
not  be  disappointed,  for  there  is  plenty  of 
material  here,  both  good  and  bad,"  she  smiled 
sadly,  and  again  sat  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  then  slowly  moving  her  head  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  continued:  "Yes,  both 
good  and  bad." 

"Perhaps  you  can  give  me  some  pointers," 
he  said  pleasantly. 

' '  No, ' '  she  answered,  *  *  I  will  not  tell  you  any 
more  at  present.  I'll  let  you  wander  around 
for  a  few  days  and  if  you  do  not  find  any  sub 
jects  in  that  time,  I  will  point  out  some." 

"But  where  shall  I  find  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  will  keep  track  of  you,  for  I  am  on  the 
beach  every  day,"  she  smiled.  "Later  in  the 
evening  you  had  better  walk  on  just  a  little 
further  and  listen  to  the  band  concert."  And 
as  she  finished  speaking,  she  placed  the  staff 
in  front  of  her  and  with  some  difficulty  rose  to 
her  feet.  "I  must  move  on,"  she  smiled 


20  Alone 

again,  as  she  took  up  the  basket,  ' '  and  give  the 
gull  some  supper." 

He  watched  her  as  she  slowly  walked  on  a 
few  yards  and  then  stopped  and  took  from  her 
pocket  a  piece  of  bread  and  gave  it  to  a  hungry 
dog  and  then  slowly  passed  on  in  the  same 
direction  most  of  the  other  people  on  the  prom 
enade  were  going. 

"  There  is  a  tragedy  buried  in  the  old 
heart,"  he  said  half  aloud,  and  then  sat  for 
some  time  gazing  far  out  on  the  sea  that  was 
slowly  turning  to  a  darker  hue  as  night-time 
came  on. 


CHAPTER  Two 

THE  STRANGER  AT  GOVANTE  PIER 

The  tints  of  twilight  had  melted  into  dark 
shades  of  night  when  the  stranger  reached  the 
plaza  of  Govante  Pier.  Soft  strains  of  an 
Italian  classic  came  to  where  he  stood.  "How 
strange  it  all  seems,"  he  thought,  as  he  moved 
on  a  few  steps  and  stopped  again  to  make 
further  observations  of  the  unusual  scene. 

He  idly  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars 
that  supported  the  gallery  of  one  of  the  near 
by  buildings  that  faced  the  rows  of  benches 
where  many  people  sat,  and  where  he  might 
see  the  whole  sweep  of  the  plaza  and  be  undis 
turbed  by  the  throng  of  sightseers.  "How 
incongruous, "  he  said,  half  aloud,  as  the 
"jazz"  music  of  a  merry-go-round  mingled 
with  the  fascinating  strains  of  the  Italian  band. 
And  from  where  he  stood  he  could  hear  the  con 
stant  grind  of  an  old  water-wheel  and  the  sten 
torian  call  of  the  megaphone  man:  "Come,  go 
over  the  falls!  Don't  miss  it,  for  everybody 
goes  over  the  falls!" 

And  then  he  heard  the  soft  tinkling  sound  of 


22  Alone 

small  bells  and  a  foreign  dialect:  "Geedep, 
my  leetla  keedes,  geedep ! ' ' 

He  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
sound  came  and  saw  a  lame  Italian  leading 
four  goats  that  were  hitched  to  small  carts  in 
which  happy  little  children  sat  driving.  He 
was  intensely  interested,  and  did  not  hear  a 
woman  who  carried  a  tambourine  in  her  hand 
come  to  where  he  stood.  She  was  called  "Sal 
vation  Nell,"  for  she  gave  most  of  her  time  in 
doing  not  only  for  the  poor  but  for  those  who 
had  sorrows  and  were  not  able  without  mental 
help  to  meet  life  as  it  came  to  them. 

"You  are  a  stranger  here,"  she  said  with  a 
pleasant  smile,  and  as  they  stood  conversing 
their  attention  was  attracted  to  a  tall  young 
man  of  unusual  carriage  who  came  to  the 
further  end  of  the  plaza  and  stood  alone  while 
seemingly  listening  to  the  music.  His  hair 
was  long  and  light  in  color.  "A  Genoese," 
mused  the  writer,  as  he  took  notice  of  the  hair 
and  his  attire  which  was  that  of  a  gentleman 
— dark  and  modest. 

The  young  man's  eyes  nervously  traveled 
over  the  throng  and  at  last  rested  on  a  young 
woman  who  sat  on  one  of  the  many  benches 
that  were  near  where  the  stranger  and  "Sal 
vation  Nell"  stood. 


The  Stranger  at  Govante  Pier  23 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  the  waiter,  as  he 
noticed  his  companion's  eyes  also  turn  to  the 
woman  on  the  bench. 

"She  claims  to  have  been  a  professional 
dancer  in  Kussia,  and  is  married  to  a  mighty 
fine  American,"  she  answered,  "but  she  is 
known  here  on  the  beach  merely  as  Zita." 

While  speaking  they  noticed  a  little  old 
woman,  short  and  fat,  who  wore  a  long  fur  coat 
and  a  cream-colored  mantilla  over  her  hennaed 
hair  hurry  out  of  the  crowd  and  go  to  the  side 
of  the  young  man  who  stood  alone  nervously 
twirling  his  silver-mounted  stick. 

At  first  he  paid  no  attention  to  her,  and  to  an 
onlooker  it  would  seem  as  if  she  were  one  he  did 
not  know,  until  she  placed  her  hand  on  the 
back  of  his  uncovered  hand,  for  on  the  other 
he  wore  a  grey  silk  glove  and  carried  the 
unused  one  in  that  hand. 

As  he  turned  his  head  to  speak  to  her,  he  also 
turned  his  body  half  w'ay  around,  and  after 
nervously  glancing  to  see  that  no  one  stood 
near  or  watching,  he  took  something  from  his 
pocket  and  placed  it  in  the  handbag  she  carried. 
She  quickly  closed  the  bag,  and  after  again 
placing  her  hand  on  his,  hurried  off. 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  the  writer,  as  they 
watched  her  dodge  here  and  there  amongst 


24  Alone 

the  throng  of  people,  and  then — with  her  face 
half  hidden  by  her  mantilla — she  hurried  down 
the  concrete  walk  and  was  soon  lost  in  the 
darkness. 

"No  one  knows,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
"Some  people  call  her  a  fortune-teller  and 
some  think  she  is  a  hypnotist,  but  all  join  in 
calling  her  'The  Woman  of  Mystery,'  and  the 
young  man  is  called  Larry  O'Flynn." 

"Euphonious,"  laughed  the  stranger.  "He 
is  a  perfect  type  of  Italian  found  in  Genoa  and 
that  part  of  Italy." 

"I  believe  at  one  time  in  another  city,"  she 
said,  "he  was  known  as  Signer  Bonino." 

When  the  old  woman  passed  from  sight  the 
young  man,  swinging  his  cane  and  with  a  pre 
tense  of  being  oblivious  to  the  surroundings, 
quietly  went  to  the  bench  where  Zita  sat,  and 
without  speaking  took  a  seat  beside  her  and  sat 
apparently  listening  to  the  music.  Zita  knew 
he  was  there,  but  like  a  bird  nesting,  kept  per 
fectly  still,  thinking  she  was  away  from  the 
idler's  eyes,  but  the  writer  was  quick  to  see,  and 
a  knowing  smile  played  over  his  lips. 

"What  is  the  relation  between  those  two?" 
he  asked. 

There  was  no  answer  in  words.  "Salvation 
Nell"  merely  smiled  and  then  said:  "I  must 


The  Stranger  at  Govante  Pier  25 

leave  you  now,  for  here  comes  Aunt  Mary  and 
I  wish  to  speak  with  her  for  she  knows  every 
thing,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "Look  at  her  now 
as  she  stands  watching  that  young  man." 

He  looked  in  the  direction  she  pointed  and 
saw  the  old  woman  standing  steadily  gazing  at 
the  man  "Salvation  Nell"  had  told  him  was 
called  Larry  O'Flynn. 

'  *  She  never  misses  an  opportunity  to  be  near 
and  watch  him,  and  I  really  think  that  is  what 
brings  her  to  the  Pier  every  night." 

When  he  saw  whom  she  referred  to,  he  said 
to  himself:  "Why,  that's  the  old  woman  I 
met  on  the  promenade." 

After  a  short  talk  with  "Salvation  Nell," 
Aunt  Mary  joined  the  crowd  that  was  going 
along  the  pier  that  extended  from  the  plaza 
to  a  miniature  island  of  broken  and  queer  look 
ing  rocks. 

"I'll  walk  slowly  and  watch  her,"  he  mused, 
as  he  made  his  way  towards  that  part  of  the 
pier.  Aunt  Mary  did  not  stop  at  any  of  the 
booths,  but  went  direct  to  the  further  end  of 
the  board  walk  where  the  breakers  were  loud 
and  dashed  high  on  the  rocks.  Her  infirmity 
made  it  difficult  at  times  for  her  to  walk  along 
the  pier  where  the  throng  of  sightseers  jostled 
each  other  for  places  of  vantage.  This  night 


26  Alone 

she  walked  slowly,  and  at  times  was  hidden 
from  sight,  but  all  the  time  kept  on  towards  the 
further  end  of  the  pier.  It  was  moonlight,  and 
the  sheen  on  the  water  that  rolled  and  tossed 
was  of  many  hues,  and  brilliant  like  waves  of 
spangles.  At  last  the  stranger  saw  her  leaning 
against  the  railing  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
walk,  and  keeping  in  the  shadow,  cautiously 
moved  near  to  where  she  stood,  but  it  was  only 
for  a  moment,  for  soon  he  heard  her  soft, 
impassive  voice:  "I  wonder  if  his  slumber  is 
broken  by  the  cold  waves  that  dash  over  these 
rocks, ' '  and  as  she  finished  speaking,  she  turned 
and  retraced  her  steps. 

The  writer  walked  slowly  behind  her  until 
he  came  to  the  entrance  of  a  dance  hall,  and 
there  he  stopped  to  watch  the  dancers.  Soon 
the  young  man  whom  he  thought  wfas  a  Geno 
ese  came  and  stood  near  by.  Surprise  shone 
in  the  stranger's  eyes  as  the  young  man 
removed  his  hat  that  had  covered  his  unusual 
brow  and  forehead.  "Two  characters  in  one," 
he  mused,  as  he  watched  the  face  that  had  the 
appearance  of  being  artificially  whitened  and 
the  lips  that  were  rouged. 

People  passing  along  the  walk  would  stop 
for  a  moment  and  some  boldly  stare  at  the 


The  Stranger  at  Govante  Pier  27 

young  man,  whose  eyes  nervously  traveled 
over  the  surroundings,  while  others  passed  on 
with  a  knowing  smile  playing  over  their  lips. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  WRITER  MEETS  AUNT  MARY  ON 
THE  PALISADES 

On  a  rustic  bench  near  a  lone  cypress  that 
stands  like  a  sentinel  by  night  and  by  day, 
Aunt  Mary  sat  quietly  drinking  in  the  pure  sea 
air.  A  handkerchief  was  spread  over  her  lap 
and  she  was  eating  a  piece  of  coffee-cake  that 
was  made  in  coils  and  had  sweet  glazing  over 
the  top. 

While  she  idly  picked  bits  of  citron  and 
raisins  from  the  cake,  she  did  not  hear 
approaching  footsteps,  for  her  attention  was 
directed  to  a  side  path  where  a  young  man 
was  hurrying  along  to  the  further  end  of 
the  pretty  park  that  overlooked  the  sea. 
"Larry  O'Flynn,"  she  said  half  aloud,  as  she 
watched  him  pass  from  sight. 

The  stranger  heard  the  words  and  moved  to 
where  she  sat  in  the  shadows  that  had  begun 
to  lengthen. 

"Good  evening,  Aunt  Mary,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  a  seat  beside  her. 

She  noticed  him  glance  at  her  lap  and 
quickly  said:  "I  often  bring  my  supper  here 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  29 

and  eat  it  in  the  twilight  while  Watching  some 
of  the  flowers  that  fall  asleep  in  the  evening's 
glow.  How  did  you  know  I  was  called  Aunt 
Mary?"  she  asked  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"  *  Salvation  Nell'  told  me  that  was  what 
people  called  you,  and  she  also  said  you  knew 
everything. ' ' 

"What  may  I  call  you?"  she  asked,  with  a 
friendly  twinkle  of  the  eye  for  the  old  soul  had 
a  great  sense  of  humor. 

"I  am  just  plain  Merle  Chapman,"  he 
laughed,  as  he  thought  of  the  odd  situation. 
"If  I  am  pleasant  with  her,"  he  speculated,  "I 
wonder  if  she  would  confide  in  me,  for  I  feel 
sure  she  has  a  secret  buried  deep  in  her 
heart. ' ' 

"We  are  going  to  have  an  agreeable  sun 
set,"  he  said,  in  way  of  making  conversation. 

"Agreeable,"  she  answered,  in  much  sur 
prise.  "They  are  all  agreeable  here,  for  there 
is  never  a  day  so  foggy,  or  one  with  mist  and 
rain,  but  what  the  sun  at  twilight  breaks  on  the 
rocks  of  that  distant  main.  It  seems  like  a 
child  waving  a  goodnight  as  it  sinks  to  rest,  and 
in  a  few  hours  it  comes  back  again  o  'er  the  lea. ' ' 

"And  you  have  been  here  at  the  break-o'- 
day?"  he  interrupted. 

1  *  Oh,  yes ;  many  a  time, ' '  she  said  with  much 


30  Alone 

spirit,  "and  I  shall  never  forget  one  night 
when  there  was  a  storm  on  the  mighty  deep 
and  the  breakers  rolling  high.  It  was  moon 
light  and  the  bay  was  a  burst  of  glory  with  its 
glistening  waters  gold  and  blue  and  dancing 
tints  of  jade." 

"Not  an  ordinary  person,"  he  thought,  as 
he  listened  to  her  words. 

"That  night  I  went  close  to  the  rolling 
waters  and  walked  on  the  drifted  sands  while 
watching  the  sheen  of  the  moon  and  stars 
mingle  with  reflections  from  shore  lights,  and 
it  made  a  brilliant  scene  like  fairyland.  It  was 
all  so  beautiful  I  stayed  on  the  sands  until  the 
moon  hung  low  in  the  heavens  and  then  came 
back  to  this  rustic  bench  and  here  in  the  quiet, 
while  the  sun's  golden  rays  came  o'er  the  lea 
and  kissed  the  sparkling  dew,  I  watched  flowers 
open  their  petals  and  send  forth  perfume,  and 
squirrels  scamper  at  play  while  orioles  sang, 
and  as  the  day  grew  brighter  white  sails 
unfurled  to  the  gentle  breeze  and  the  notes  of 
the  fisherman's  song  as  he  sailed  out  to  sea 
came  to  join  the  music  of  the  stirring  trees. 
Just  before  the  break-o'-day  the  sea  and  sky 
blend  in  a  mist  like  tears,  and  it  would  seem 
as  if  the  sunbeams  came  to  drive  the  mist 
away. ' ' 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  31 

As  she  spoke,  his  eyes  searched  the  withered 
hands  for  a  wedding  ring,  but  did  not  find  one 
there. 

"You  must  like  verse,"  he  said,  "for  you  see 
so  much  of  the  beautiful  in  life." 

"Life  is  beautiful  even  to  those  weighted 
down  with  sorrows.  I  love  to  watch  the  sun- 
rays  wake  the  dreaming  flowers."  She  sat 
a  moment  as  if  meditating:  "Yes,"  she  said 
without  looking  up,  "read  some  verses  to  me. 
Poetry  is  the  blossom  of  life,  but  some  get  so 
little  of  the  bloom.  I  wander  around  and  find 
mine,  but  it  is  not  always  in  the  sunshine." 

"I  will  read  to  you  a  few  verses,"  he  smiled, 
as  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  bit  of  paper. 
"I  wrote  these  lines  last  night  while  sitting 
on  this  same  old  bench." 

"Bead  them  to  me,  please,"  she  said,  as  she 
looked  up  with  wistful  eyes  that  interested  him 
more  than  would  those  of  just  a  wanderer. 

"I  think  she  is  becoming  interested  and  may 
yet  confide  in  me,"  he  mused,  as  he  smoothed 
out  the  paper  and  began  to  read: 

' '  It  was  moonlight  on  the  Palisades 
And  all  around  was  still, 
Save  the  rolling  crystalline  sea  below 
And  the  mocking-bird 's  midnight  trill. 


32  Alone 

"A  sweet  scent  came  on  the  gentle  breeze 
I  knew  not  from  where, 
So  I  wandered  around  in  bloom-lined  paths 
But  could  not  find  it  there. 

"It  was  a  fragrance  dainty  and  strange; 
A  perfume  that  only  comes  at  night, 
It  lured  me  on  through  arboured  paths 
Then  out  in  Saturnian  light. 

"And  there  beside  a  rustic  fence 
I  saw  a  maiden,  oh !  so  fair, 
As  she  stood  in  dream-wrapped  quiet 
In  the  moondrift  glare. 

' '  She  stood  with  the  breath  of  God  about  her 
In  the  sheen  of  the  moon  and  stars ; 
Her  feet  rested  on  a  blanket  of  bloom 
And  I  whispered  '  The  Goddess  of  Mars. ' 

' '  The  soft  perfume  lured  me  to  where  she  stood, 
With  cluster  lights  at  her  feet, 
And  beyond  were  sands  like  drifted  snow — 
Kissed  by  sprays  from  the  billowy  deep. 

' '  And  there  I  found  a  bloom  resting  near  her  heart, 
Wafting  its  breath  in  the  quiet  night ; 
It  was  a  spray  of  black  acacia  she  wore 
On  the  bosom  of  her  robe  of  silvery  white. ' ' 

"There  are  some  blossoms  that  send  forth 
perfume  only  at  night,"  she  said,  with  a  know 
ing  sparkle  in  the  eye  as  she  sat  watching  the 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  33 

writer.  "  Youth  has  not  all  disappeared,"  she 
smiled  teasingly.  "Life  is  wonderful,  and  it  is 
interesting  to  see  the  part  some  of  us  are  called 
upon  to  play.  To  me  it  is  like  a  great  drama 
full  of  joys,  tragedy  and  sweet  sorrows,  and 
it  is  a  study  to  watch  the  different  ones  play 
their  part,"  she  hesitated  a  moment  before 
continuing,  "some  almost  sink,  for  in  places 
the  waters  are  deep  in  the  river  of  life."  As 
she  spoke  there  was  something  in  her  old  voice 
— a  softness  that  was  like  unspeakable  music 
and  drew  him  closer  to  her. 

"Aunt  Mary,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  away 
for  a  few  weeks." 

She  did  not  look  up  nor  speak  until  he  told 
her  of  the  Mission  he  intended  visiting  on  his 
trip. 

"Why  go  there?"  she  said,  with  almost  fear 
in  her  expression.  "There  are  many  much 
more  interesting  ones  and  nearer  here." 

He  noticed  the  startled  expression.  "How 
strange,"  he  thought,  but  soon  dismissed  it 
from  his  mind. 

"I,  too,  journey  once  in  awihile,  for  some 
times  I  long  for  a  change  and  go  far  back 
towards  the  Sierra  mountains  that  lie  to  the 
east  of  Pasadena,  and  there  I  see  and  talk  with 
those  who  do  not  care  for  the  sea,  and  would 


34  Alone 

rather  rest  in  the  shadow  of  oaks  or  beneath 
the  protecting  branches  of  the  stately  syca 
more  and  breathe  in  the  perfume  of  wild 
flowers  that  grow  in  profusion  on  the  pictur 
esque  foot-hills,  and  on  my  journeys  I  some 
times  sit  on  the  grassy  banks  of  a  stream  and 
bathe  my  hands  and  face  in  its  cool  waters, 
and  watch  birds  dress  their  feathers."  She 
looked  in  the  writer's  eyes  and  smiled  as  she 
continued:  " Perhaps  they  are  more  pains 
taking  than  I,  for  their  gowns  are  so  wonder 
fully  beautiful  in  rich  colors  and  glossy  dress 
ing.  I  often  unroll  my  blanket  and  lie  dowta 
to  rest  on  the  brown  hills  that  slumber  in  the 
summer  sunshine.  I  always  make  my  journey 
in  the  summer,  for  there  is  never  any  rain  dur 
ing  that  season  and  the  nights  are  warmer." 

1  'You  do  not  travel  at  night?"  asked  Merle 
in  much  surprise. 

"No,  I  sleep  on  benches  in  parks  or  beside 
a  hedge,  for  the  money  I  derive  from  the  sale 
of  shoestrings  and  pencils  is  barely  enough  to 
pay  for  my  food." 

"The  poor  old  soul,"  thought  Merle,  as  he 
became  more  and  more  interested,  and  his  eyes 
again  traveled  to  her  lap  and  her  supper  that 
consisted  of  a  piece  of  yellow  coffee-cake  with 
bits  of  citron  and  raisins  in.  "I  wish  I  might 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  35 

do  something  for  her,"  he  mused,  "but  her 
dignity  forbids." 

The  bench  upon  which  they  sat  was  not  far 
from  a  long  flight  of  stairs  that  led  from  the 
ocean  promenade  to  the  park  above.  They 
were  partly  hidden  by  an  Escallonia  that  was 
in  full  bloom,  a  flower  that  as  eventide  creeps 
on  gives  out  more  of  its  aromatic  fragrance. 

"What  a  pungent  perfume,"  said  Merle, 
with  a  desire  to  encourage  the  old  woman 
to  talk.  "So  different  to  what  the  delicate 
white  and  pink  blossoms  would  suggest.  One 
would  expect  to  see  a  flower  more  like  the  dash 
ing  Spanish  Broom." 

There  was  no  response  to  his  words;  her 
eyes  were  riveted  on  a  dark  object  coming  up 
the  steps.  As  he  sat  silently  watching,  she 
moved  closer  to  the  sheltering  branches  and 
soon  Zita  came  to  the  top  step.  She  did  not 
notice  those  on  the  bench  close  by  as  she 
quickly  turned  into  a  path  that  led  in  the  same 
direction  as  did  the  one  Larry  O'Plynn  had 
taken.  Neither  one  spoke  for  some  moments, 
but  sat  quietly  watching  the  nervous  woman 
hasten  her  steps  and  pass  into  the  deep 
shadows  of  palms  and  cypress  that  afforded 
wonderful  spots  for  trysting. 

Merle  placed  one  of  his  hands  over  the  frail 


36  Alone 

old  hand  that  had  fallen  away  from  her  lap 
and  rested  on  the  board  seat.  '  *  Aunt  Mary, '  *  he 
said  affectionately,  ''tell  me  something  about 
this  woman  who  just  passed  by."  There  was 
no  response  for  a  moment,  and  the  old  woman's 
face  turned  from  the  deep  purple  shadows  that 
engulfed  Zita's  form  to  the  mystic  glow  that 
lay  to  the  west,  and  told  of  the  closing  day.  "Is 
she  in  any  way  associated  with  your  life?" 
The  old  woman  seemed  startled  and  turned 
quickly  when  she  heard  his  words.  Her  lips 
moved,  but  no  sound  came  and  her  eyes  turned 
back  to  the  waters  that  hid  the  mysteries  of 
the  sea.  Merle  sat  quietly  watching  the  frail 
hand  that  lay  in  her  lap  pick  at  the  remaining 
bit  of  coffee-cake  and  he  half  wished  he  had 
not  asked  the  question.  "What  shall  I  do  to 
rouse  her?"  he  thought, — and  then  spoke  words 
that  were  intended  to  draw  her  thoughts  from 
the  sea,  the  purple  shadows,  and  the  two  who 
were  meeting  clandestinely.  "Tell  me  more 
of  your  interesting  journeys  inland,"  he  said 
coaxingly  and  feigned  the  attitude  of  a  child 
asking  for  a  story.  The  old  woman  looked  up 
with  appealing  eyes  and  merely  asked  for  more 
verses.  He  was  anxious  to  please  the  old  soul 
for  his  interest  in  her  was  now  taking  on  much 
sympathy  and  he  incorporated  it  with  his  great 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  37 

desire  for  a  story, — to  know  the  tragedy  he 
felt  sure  she  was  keeping  from  the  world  and 
with  the  fortitude  of  a  brave  soldier  kept  it 
buried  in  her  heart,  that  ofttimes  ached  and 
ached  in  the  wee  small  hours  of  morn.  She 
again  spoke  of  life  and  her  great  interest 
appealed  to  him.  "Isn't  life  beautiful?"  she 
said,  as  she  turned  and  placed  her  free  hand 
over  the  one  that  rested  near  her.  "Isn't 
nature  beautiful!"  She  sat  in  silence  for  a 
moment  and  in  that  time  her  eyes  traveled  to 
some  sleeping  flowers  at  her  feet.  "Even  to 
me  here  alone  there  is  much  of  the  beautiful 
in  life,  although  I  often  travel  down  the  road 
to  Yesterday,  and  on  that  journey  I  pass  by  the 
shadows  that  mark  the  sadness  that  came  into 
my  life  and  only  see  the  bright  spots,  and  as 
for  the  future,  I  shall  smile  as  long  as  I  can, 
even  if  the  smile  at  times  must  be  forced 
through  tears,  for  a  smile  and  kind  word  to  a 
wandering  soul  means  so  much,  and  while  giv 
ing  that  smile  sunshine  comes  to  our  own 
path, — and  so  I  hope  to  pass  the  remainder 
of  my  days.  Mr.  Chapman,  do  not  ask  me  to 
talk  of  myself,  but  read  to  me  some  more  of 
your  verses,  for  you  must  have  many."  He 
did  not  have  any  more  with  him,  but  while  she 
spoke  he  remembered  a  poem  he  had  written 


38  Alone 

on  a  former  visit  to  California,  and  it  brought 
back  pleasant  memories  of  a  journey  taken  to 
the  Forest  of  Arden,  the  country  home  of  a 
noted  actress,  and  when  he  mentioned  the  name 
of  the  place  a  smile  played  over  the  old  face. 
"I  have  been  there,"  she  said,  and  then  asked 
Merle  if  he  would  repeat  the  lines.  His  eyes 
shone  as  he  listened  to  her  well  modulated 
voice.  "The  great  Polish  woman  befriended 
me  at  one  time."  "I'm  getting  something 
now,"  he  thought,  but  she  again  sat  in  silence, 
as  if  waiting  to  hear  the  words.  "Perhaps  I 
can  remember  the  lines, ' '  he  said  with  an  affec 
tionate  smile: 

"From  the  drifting  sands  of  the  mighty  sea, 

he  began,  and  the  frail  old  woman  nestled  back 
in  a  corner  of  the  bench  and  pulled  her  faded 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  while  she  sat  quietly 
listening  as  he  continued, 

' '  Through  a  field  and  flowering  garden, 
We  followed  a  trail  o'er  a  dew-kissed  lea, 
On  our  journey  to  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

"With  dilated  nostrils,  our  steeds  turned  in 
To  a  path  the  Padres  trod ; 
It  was  marked  by  bells  of  El  Camino  Real, 
'Twas  like  a  road  leading  to  God. 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  39 

"We  traveled  along  the  King's  Highway, 
To  the  music  of  whispering  winds ; 
Our  path  led  through  a  perfumed  aisle, 
And  we  reined  in  many  times. 

' '  Sweet  odors  came  from  orange  groves, 
And  mocking-birds  sang  in  the  palms; 
And  we  reined  in  again  to  watch  the  birds 
Bathe  in  lily  ponds. 

' '  With  eyes  alert,  our  steeds  cantered  on, 
In  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  rose ; 
Some  growing  in  tramp-like  freedom, 
Others  in  stately  rows. 

"In  the  mellow  light  of  middle-day, 
We  turned  towards  the  low,  green  hills ; 
And  on  past  myriads  of  blooming  shrubs, 
That  grew  beside  murmuring  rills. 

' '  We  rested  in  the  shade  of  a  sycamore  tree, 
And  drank  from  a  mountain  brook, 
That  sparkled  and  sang  with  a  lullaby  sound, 
As  it  flowed  from  a  canyon  nook. 

"We  followed  a  path  leading  through  chaparral, 
Growing  on  the  low  hill  side ; 
And  reined  in  again  on  the  mountain  top, 
That  was  bathed  in  the  glow  of  eventide. 

"To  the  music  of  all  nature  the  sun  went  down, 
And  the  world  took  on  its  crimson  glow ; 
And  mountain  peaks  were  like  diadems, 
Like  the  sun  shining  on  snow. 


40  Alone 

"From  those  lofty  heights, 
We  looked  down  on  a  wonderful  garden ; 
And  in  the  mystic  shadows  of  the  valley  beyond, 
Lay  the  beautiful  Forest  of  Arden." 

When  he  finished  repeating  the  lines,  the  old 
head  nodded  in  approval,  and  a  happy  smile 
enveloped  her  withered  face.  "You  speak  of 
the  dainty,  feathered  folk  who  live  in  nature's 
music, — we  have  five  hundred  varieties  of  birds 
in  our  beautiful  State.  Of  course,  that  includes 
those  of  adjacent  islands, — but  they  are  num 
bered  a  part  of  Californian  Avifauna.  They 
are  ducks,  geese  and  rare  migrants  and  many 
interesting  specimens  have  been  brought  to  our 
museums. ' ' 

"Salvation  Nell  was  right,"  mused  Merle, 
"when  she  said,  'Aunt  Mary  knows  every 
thing' — a  wonderful  old  woman  and  a  faithful 
sentinel  guarding  her  secret." 

"As  I  said  before,  I  have  spent  many  hours 
in  the  study  of  flowers  and  birds,  and  at  times 
almost  live  apart  with  them. ' '  And  she  told  of 
a  visit  she  had  made  to  an  estate  lying  within 
the  limits  of  Los  Angeles  and  of  her  joy  in  the 
grounds  that  were  much  like  an  English  estate. 
"The  grounds  are  closed  in,"  she  said,  "by  a 
high  brick  wall,  over  which  ivy  and  many  col 
ored  ramblers  grow,  and  high,  iron  gates  open 


Aunt  Mary  on  the  Palisades  41 

and  close  as  noiselessly  as  the  sun-rays  come 
to  brighten  the  foliage."  And  she  told  how 
timid  she  was  when  she  passed  through  the 
main  gates  and  slowly  walked  up  a  concrete  in 
cline  that  led  to  the  porte-cochere  over  which 
wistaria  grew  in  graceful  festoons.  "My  fears 
were  soon  allayed,  for  the  young  master  was  in 
the  grounds  and  bade  me  come  in  and  enjoy  the 
surroundings, — "  and  with  a  sad,  pleasant  smile 
she  continued  to  tell  of  his  courtesy.  "And  I 
felt  quite  at  home,"  and  Merle  noticed  as  she 
spoke  she  bit  her  under  lip,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  a  wild  stare  in  her  eyes.  "We  went, — 
I  say  '  we, '  for  he  kindly  showed  me  through  his 
lovely  place  and  we  talked  long  and  pleasantly 
and  he  told  me  many  things  about  the  song 
birds, — things  I  did  not  know.  We  sat  near  a 
fountain  and  watched  humming  birds  bathe, — " 
and  she  told  how  the  little  hummers  would  fly 
through  the  sprays  that  shot  up  from  where 
gold-fish  swam  underneath  lily-pads.  "They 
would  fly  through  the  mist-like  sprays  then  ruf 
fle  their  plumage  and  dart  off  to  a  trellised 
columbine  close  by, — gather  honey  for  awhile 
and  then  back  and  again  through  the  spray, 
and  when  their  bath  was  finished,  or  mostly 
finished,  I  remember  seeing  them  fly  to  another 
fountain,  where  the  water  rose  in  hook-like 


42  Alone 

fashion  and  settle  back  in  another  pond  where 
several  golden  wrens  were  bathing  in  miniature 
lakes  that  had  formed  on  lily-pads.  The  little 
hummers  would  throw  their  bodies  back  and 
stick  their  tiny  feet  out  in  the  water,  and  I  re 
member  watching  one  little  fellow  sitting  on 
the  water,  where  it  fell  in  a  graceful  curve  on 
its  way  back  to  the  pond.  The  little  bunch  of 
feathers  would  bounce  like  a  tiny  ball,  as  the 
water  sparkled  and  bubbled, — and  he  seemed 
to  love  to  be  tossed  about."  And  Merle  was 
intensely  interested  when  she  described  in  de 
tail  the  variety  of  little  bunches  of  feathers  of 
this  species  of  birds. 

"  There  were  little  black  fellows  with  irides 
cent  purple  throats, ' '  she  said,  * '  and  another  all 
vivid  green  Vith  ruby-colored  throat,  and  still 
another,  a  golden  bronze  rnite.  They  were  pug 
nacious  little  fellows  and  seemed  to  rule  the 
domain.  Isn't  life  beautiful?"  she  again  said, 
but  Merle  noticed  a  tinge  of  sadness  in  her 
voice,  and  he  also  noticed  her  glance  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  deep,  purple  shadows,  and  he  said 
to  himself, — ''The  sentinel  is  still  on  duty." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

MERLE  CHAPMAN  VISITS  FATHER  DIAZ 
AT  THE  OLD  MISSION 

A  dragon-fly  poised  for  a  moment  above  the 
writer's  head  and  then  lighted  on  a  dry  leaf 
where  it  seemed  to  fall  asleep.  Hornets  lazily 
crawled  in  and  out  of  holes  in  crumbling  blocks 
of  old  adobe,  and  birds  softly  sang  in  a  great 
gnarled  tree  with  drooping  branches  that  were 
laden  with  red  berries,  and  all  nature  seemed 
drowsy. 

It  was  a  true  California  summer  day,  balmy 
and  restful.  Father  Diaz  sat  in  the  cool,  un 
broken  stillness  of  a  tile  flagged  porch  where 
adobe  and  redwood  arches  supported  a  roof 
of  red-baked  tiles  richly  mossed  with  age ;  tiles 
that  were  made  by  the  Indians  of  early  days. 

It  was  a  time  of  the  year  plants  rest,  and 
nature  spreads  over  the  hills  a  mantle  of  brown. 
On  his  journey  to  the  old  mission  he  had  passed 
through  a  wilderness  of  beauty,  a  paradise  of 
live  oaks  with  festoons  of  blue-green  moss,  and 
as  he  reached  the  mission  he  faced  a  new  scene 
of  picturesque  interest.  Indian  and  Spanish 
halfbreeds  idly  sat  around,  and  there  were 


44  Alone 

some  dark  skinned  senoras  carelessly  working 
on  bead  ornaments,  while  others  were  smoking 
and  lounging  in  the  shade  of  palms  and  trees 
with  sheltering  branches,  and  the  picture  was 
a  shadow  of  the  brilliant  past. 

He  stood  leaning  against  an  iron  post  that 
supported  one  of  the  bells  that  mark  El  Camino 
Real,  the  path  where  the  padres  trod, — the 
King's  Highway. 

The  belfry  of  the  old  mission,  with  its  rusty 
bells  whose  music  at  one  time  filled  the  air,  gave 
the  sombre  surrounding  a  color  of  romance,  and 
the  yellow  bloom  of  the  cactus  blending  with 
the  brown  adobe  of  the  ruins  of  Indian  huts 
fascinated  him,  and  it  was  some  moments  be 
fore  he  spoke  to  the  old  padre  who  was  reading 
and  had  not  heard  him  approach. 

"Father  Diaz,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  have  come 
to  pay  you  a  visit." 

"You  are  welcome,  my  son,"  answered  the 
kind  old  padre,  as  he  held  out  a  feeble  hand  to 
the  stranger  when  he  passed  up  the  steps  that 
were  mossy  and  broken. 

"I  am  only  a  wandering  writer,"  Merle 
laughed,  "gathering  material  here  and  there. 
I  wanted  to  see  you  and  your  picturesque  mis 
sion  so  have  traveled  a  long  way  in  the  foot 
prints  of  the  old  padres,  for  I  wanted  to  get 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         45 

the  true  atmosphere.  I  have  stopped  to  rest 
beneath  a  graceful  sycamore,  and  then  wan 
dered  on  and  rested  again  in  an  eucalyptus 
grove  aglow  in  scarlet  bloom.  Oh!  how  I  love 
California,  and  I  love  the  eucalyptus  although 
it  is  an  adopted  tree  and  so  different  from 
others,  for  it  sheds  its  bark  instead  of  its 
leaves.'* 

1  'My  son,  there  are  many  adopted  trees  in 
California.  The  early  fathers  brought  cypress 
saplings  from  the  Holy  Land  and  planted  them 
at  Monterey,  and  they  grow  on  what  is  now 
called  Cypress  Point.  After  you  have  rested 
a  bit,  I  will  show  you  through  the  mission,  but 
as  you  love  nature  so  much,  I  am  going  first  to 
take  you  through  the  garden  and  to  the  little 
cemetery  where  I  hope  some  time  my  tired  body 
will  be  laid  to  rest." 

"Let  us  go  now,"  said  the  writer;  "I  am 
anxious  to  see  it  all." 

The  dark  robed  father,  with  feet  incased  in 
sandals,  rose  from  his  rustic  chair  and  they 
were  soon  in  the  little  garden  where  the  paths 
were  strewn  with  memories,  and  where  life  had 
often  unfolded  itself.  Low  growing  things  in 
beds  overgrown  with  weeds  were  fighting  for 
life  and  flowering  vines  wandered  in  ragged 
confusion. 


46  Alone 

"My  garden  was  not  always  like  this,"  said 
Father  Diaz,  in  way  of  an  apology.  "For  some 
years  I  had  a  most  wonderful  little  woman  with 
me,  and  she  kept  my  garden  like  a  beautiful 
miniature  park.  But  she  went  away,  and  her 
disappearance  was  as  mysterious  as  her  com 
ing." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  they  came  to 
a  gate  that  was  covered  with  moss  and  hinges 
that  screeched  when  opened.  As  they  passed 
through,  he  continued:  "When  she  left  I  found 
my  hands  were  too  old  and  feeble  to  do  the 
work."  At  the  time  his  words  did  not  carry 
with  them  anything  of  interest  to  the  writer 
and  he  did  not  comment. 

"How  interesting,"  he  mused,  as  they  walked 
around  the  paths  that  were  like  places  where 
sheeted  memories  come  and  spirits  walk  in 
shadows,  "and  it  reminds  me  so  much  of  what 
Bret  Harte  wrote  of  the  cemetery  at  the  Mis 
sion  Dolores,  'A  weedy,  tangled,  down-at-the- 
heels  cemetery  with  tombs  and  headstones  at 
all  angles;  yet  in  a  way,  more  eloquent  of  the 
past  than  the  taciturn  old  church,  for  every 
headstone  tells  a  story,'  and  I  guess  he  was 
right." 

Near  the  crumbling  wall  that  was  partly  cov 
ered  with  ivy  and  other  ramblers  that  grew  in 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         47 

tramp-like  freedom,  the  grave  of  one  of  the 
first  padres  was  shaded  by  the  drooping 
branches  of  a  Babylonian  Willow,  and  each 
branch  of  the  great  gnarled  tree  seemed  to 
speak  of  Time's  mystery. 

They  moved  on  a  few  paces  and  then  stop 
ped  at  a  trellised  shrine  overgrown  with  passion 
flowers  that  sheltered  a  small  statue  of  a  Ma 
donna.  "Here  she  spent  many  hours,"  said 
the  old  padre,  and  his  lips  trembled  as  he 
spoke,  "and  she  planted  this  vine  herself." 

He  carefully  arranged  a  branch  that  seemed 
to  be  wandering  away.  "She  was  a  gifted  lit 
tle  woman,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  writer  by 
the  arm  and  turned  towards  the  church.  * '  Come, 
I  want  to  show  you  some  of  her  work  in  art." 

"How  strange,"  thought  Merle,  as  he  fol 
lowed  the  father  into  the  church  that  was  like 
a  massive  pile  of  crumbling  adobe  half  hidden 
here  and  there  by  flowering  ramblers  with  blos 
soms  of  many  colors. 

* '  Come  with  me, ' '  he  said,  as  they  entered  the 
building,  and  the  writer  followed  him  to  a 
small  room  where  in  some  of  the  corners  cob 
webs  seemed  never  to  have  been  molested. 

'  *  This  is  where  she  spent  many  hours.  She 
used  to  gather  and  press  Magnolia  leaves  and 
paint  pretty  scenes  on  them,  and  when  she  had 


48  Alone 

painted  a  sufficient  number  to  fill  a  small  box,  I 
would  send  them  away  to  be  sold.  She  would 
never  accept  money  for  what  she  did  in  the  gar 
den  and  around  the  church,  and  it  was  from  her 
paintings  she  derived  enough  to  buy  things  that 
were  necessary  for  herself.  See!  these  are  all 
her  work,"  he  said,  as  he  pointed  to  the 
walls  where  several  unframed  pictures  hung. 
"Poorly  clad  and  half  starved  looking,  she  came 
to  my  door  one  morning  and  asked  if  I  had  any 
work  she  could  do  in  payment  for  some  food. 
She  was  emaciated  and  oh,  so  tired  looking." 

"Just  a  moment,"  interrupted  Merle,  as  he 
stepped  close  to  an  easel  where  an  unfinished 
picture  stood.  It  was  a  half  finished  portrait 
of  a  man  and  on  the  wooden  frame  of  the  easel, 
the  part  that  showed  just  above  the  canvas, 
was  written: 

"In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing 
In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree ; 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 
Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. ' ' 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  the  father.  "It 
is  a  copy  of  a  small  photograph  she  carried  with 
her." 

As  Merle  stood  quietly  looking  at  the  picture, 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         49 

the  padre  turned  away,  but  soon  came  back. 
''See!"  he  said,  as  he  opened  a  small  box,  "she 
had  it  almost  full  and  ready  to  send  away." 

"Will  you  give  me  one!"  asked  Merle,  as  he 
examined  the  dainty  paintings.  "Or,  better 
still ;  let  me  buy  one  and  you  can  put  the  money 
in  the  box,  for  she  may  return  some  day. ' '  His 
eyes  half  closed  as  he  again  looked  at  the  pic 
ture.  ' '  The  little  leaf  may  be  a  clue, ' '  he  said 
to  himself. 

"I  fear  she  will  not  return,"  said  the  father, 
as  he  sadly  shook  his  head,  "but  you  may  do  as 
you  wish." 

Merle  carefully  placed  one  of  the  leaves  be 
tween  some  papers  he  carried  in  his  portman 
teau. 

"Tell  me  more  about  her,  will  you,  father?" 
and  as  he  spoke,  he  again  looked  at  the  unfin 
ished  portrait  and  his  mind  traveled  back  to 
Govante  Pier  and  the  young  man  whom  he 
thought  was  a  Genoese. 

' '  What  do  you  think  of  this  face ! "  he  asked 
the  padre. 

"I  have  often  studied  the  face,"  answered 
the  father,  "but  to  me  there  seem  to  be  two 
faces,  or  I  should  say — two  characters,  for  the 
brow  and  forehead  is  of  a  criminal  type,  while 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  impresses  me  differ- 


50  Alone 

ently,  for  it  is  as  mild  and  delicate  as  that  of 
a  child." 

Merle  was  silent  as  he  spoke,  but  in  his  mind 
he  traveled  to  the  young  man  he  had  seen  with 
Zita  and  back  again  to  the  bit  of  unfinished  por 
trait  on  the  easel.  "How  true  the  old  padre 
spoke,"  he  mused.  "Two  characters  in  one: 
the  criminal  and  that  of  a  child. ' ' 

"You  asked  me  to  tell  you  more  about  the 
little  woman." 

"Yes,  father;  I  am  interested."  He  was 
careful  not  to  show  the  great  mental  unrest  he 
was  experiencing. 

"As  I  said  before,  she  came  one  morning 
and  asked  for  food,  and  when  I  told  her  I  had 
plenty  of  wiork  she  could  do  she  was  truly  grate 
ful  and  went  about  her  task  with  a  zest  sur 
passed  by  none.  During  the  afternoon  I  went 
into  a  part  of  the  garden  where  she  was  at 
work  and  her  sad  little  face  looked  up  to  mine 
as  she  spoke:  'I  feel  a  beautiful  protection 
here, '  she  smiled,  and  then  again  quietly  turned 
to  her  work.  She  told  me  she  was  of  our  faith 
and  that  a  few  days  previous  she  had  stopped 
at  a  little  church  by  the  wayside  and  a  father 
there  had  heard  her  confession  and  had  given 
her  absolution.  When  she  told  me  of  the  kind 
ness  of  the  father,  her  lips  trembled  and  tears 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         51 

came  to  her  eyes.  'My  sins  were  not  many,' 
she  said,  in  a  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper,  and 
I  knew  they  wiere  not  and  never  questioned  her. 

"As  her  first  day  here  grew  into  twilight, 
the  question  confronted  me,  'Where  shall  I  put 
her  for  the  night  ?'  and  soon  she  settled  that 
question,  for  she  had  already  chosen  one  of  the 
old  Indian  huts  that  stand  just  outside  of  the 
garden  wall  and  close  to  the  gate,  and  there  she 
lived  until  she  went  away." 

4  *  But  why  did  she  leave  these  things  ? ' '  asked 
Merle,  in  much  surprise. 

"She  may  have  wanted  to  take  them,"  an 
swered  the  father,  "but  she  went  away  in  the 
night-time  and  the  gate  was  always  locked  at 
night." 

"And  you  do  not  know  why  she  went  away?" 

' '  No  " ;  he  answered,  '  *  and  we  miss  her  much 
and  in  so  many  ways.  I  did  not  know  of  her 
musical  talent  until  one  day  when  I  asked  her 
to  go  into  the  church  and  arrange  some  things 
and  mend  some  vestments  that  were  sadly  in 
need  of  repair.  Later  on  I  went  to  see  how  she 
was  getting  along  with  her  work,  and  as  I  came 
near  to  the  door  I  heard  the  strains  of  the 
organ,  and  as  I  went  nearer  there  came  the  soft 
notes  of  a  wonderful  voice.  I  quietly  opened 
the  door  and  there  in  the  semi-light  stillness 


52  Alone 

sat  the  little  wioman  at  the  organ.  She  was  not 
singing  sacred  music  in  the  sense  the  world 
means.  It  was  a  pretty  lullaby  in  Spanish,  but 
sacred  to  her  for  every  word  vibrated  on  a 
heart-string.  When  I  saw  she  was  about  to 
finish  I  carefully  withdrew,  and  the  following 
morning  I  told  her  she  might  have  one  hour  of 
each  day  for  her  music,  and  that  alone  seemed 
to  brighten  her  life. ' ' 

"Life  doesn't  ring  true,"  interrupted  Merle. 

"My  son,  we  must  not  judge,  for  perhaps  in 
her  case  God  is  preparing  a  beautiful  soul  for 
an  exalted  life  beyond;  sorrow,  you  know,  is 
the  great  builder  of  character.  Some  weeks 
later  I  persuaded  her  to  sing  at  the  services. 
At  first  she  was  very  timid,  but  soon  overcame 
that,  and  not  long  afterwards  came  the  black 
day." 

He  hesitated  and  seemed  to  be  biting  his  lips, 
and  a  hard  expression  came  to  his  otherwise 
mild  face.  Merle  noticed  and  wondered. 

"Can  you  tell  me  about  that  day  I"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  padre,  "but  let  me  have 
a  few  moments  to  calm  the  bitterness  that  rises 
when  I  think  of  that  day. ' ' 

In  a  short  time  he  continued:  "One  Sunday 
a  strange  woman  came  into  the  church  at  the 
eleven  o'clock  mass.  She  was  short  and  fat 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         53 

and  wore  a  gaudy  dress  underneath  an  outer 
garment,  and  the  lace  that  covered  her  hair 
came  down  and  partly  concealed  her  face,  and 
at  first  I  thought  her  wearing  the  mantilla  as 
she  did  she  might  be  Spanish;  but  no,  she  had 
all  the  appearance  of  one  from  the  underworld, 
for  so  many  of  such  people  when  they  reach 
the  twilight  of  life  want  to  come  nearer  to  God. 
I  thought  perhaps  she  had  been  a  keeper  of  a 
resort  in  one  of  our  large  cities  and  had  come 
here  for  refuge." 

As  he  listened,  Merle's  thoughts  again  trav 
eled  to  Govante  Pier  and  in  his  mind  he  saw 
the  woman  called  "The  Woman  of  Mystery" 
as  she  stood  holding  open  her  hand-bag  so  that 
the  young  man  called  by  two  different  names 
might  put  into  it  something  he  took  from  his 
side  pocket. 

1 '  When  the  little  woman  saw  her, ' '  continued 
the  father,  "her  face  turned  ashen,  and  I 
noticed  her  left  hand  go  out  and  clasp  the  rail 
ing  that  surrounds  the  choir,  her  eyes  were  like 
those  of  a  frightened  fawn  and  her  voice  became 
soft  and  low  and  was  never  more  beautifully 
tremulous.  The  strange  woman  left  before  the 
service  was  over  and  I  have  never  seen  her 
since. ' ' 


54  Alone 

"Why  did  you  not  question  your  little 
friend?"  asked  Merle. 

"I  h!ad  intended  to  do  so,  but  she  stayed  in 
her  little  house  the  rest  of  the  day  and  that 
night  she  disappeared." 

"To  me  that  sounds  like  hypnotism." 

"No;  she  did  not  touch  her,"  quickly  an 
swered  the  father. 

"That  is  not  necessary,"  said  Merle.  "Hyp 
notism  can  be  produced  in  three  different  ways. 
A  suggestion  can  take  place  unconsciously; 
that  is,  hypoconsciously,  and  there  is  physical 
influence  of  one  person  on  another,  but  there 
is  only  one  scientifically  assured  method  of 
producing  hypnotism  and  that  is  autosugges 
tion,  for  it  grabs  all  the  functions  of  the  ner 
vous  system.  What  you  tell  me  of  the  little 
woman's  appearance,  her  lips  and  the  tremu 
lous  voice  would  all  suggest  that.  Father  Diaz, 
please  take  me  back  to  her  little  studio ;  I  want 
to  look  at  that  portrait  again." 

They  slowly  walked  back  to  the  room  that 
the  father  held  almost  sacred.  "I  wonder," 
mused  Merle,  as  he  stood  gazing  at  the  unfin 
ished  picture. 

"Father,  it  is  getting  late,"  he  said  at  last, 
as  he  turned  away,  "and  I  think  I  had  better 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         55 

be  going  for  it  is  quite  a  little  journey  to  the 
village  where  I  intend  to  spend  the  night." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  Father  Diaz 
noticed  the  writer's  eyes  and  expression  of 
wonderment  when  he  saw  the  large  rafters  that 
spanned  the  ceiling  and  supported  the  heavy 
tile  roof,  for  they  were  dressed  but  did  not  look 
as  if  by  plane  or  draw-knife.  On  shelves  grimy 
with  age  and  neglect  there  were  utensils,  bows 
and  arrows  made  of  yucca  fibre  and  on  the  walls 
hung  several  dresses  made  of  twisted  rabbit 
skin  that  had  been  prepared  by  the  Indian 
squaws  many  years  ago.  Dust  had  fallen  over 
all  and  the  relics  were  festooned  with  cobwebs. 

"I  was  wondering  at  the  odd  dressing  of 
these  rafters, ' '  he  said,  turning  to  the  father. 

The  padre  laughed  and  then  told  him  how1,  in 
early  days,  the  padres  cut  the  rafters  in  the 
mountains  many  miles  away  and  with  the  help 
of  the  Indians  and  oxen  dragged  them  down  to 
the  building  spot,  and  as  they  pulled  them  along 
the  padres  would  turn  them  from  time  to  time 
so  the  sides  would  be  planed  alike,  and  he  told 
how  the  tile  flagging  of  the  floors  was  made 
by  the  padres  and  Indians.  "The  adobe  was 
pressed  into  shape  by  hand  and  then  laid  out 
in  the  sun  to  dry  and  harden. ' ' 


56  Alone 

"I  will  walk  with  you  to  the  door,"  said  the 
father;  "I  want  to  show  you  a  bed  of  poppies 
she  planted,"  and  as  he  spoke  he  led  the  way 
to  a  lawn  where  a  goat  was  quietly  grazing,  and 
just  beyond  was  a  bed  of  golden  poppies.  He 
told  Merle  the  California  poppy  was  the  first 
blossom  that  attracted  the  Spaniards  who 
sailed  to  these  shores,  "and  when  they  saw 
fields  of  this  blazing  blossom,"  he  said,  "they 
called  California  'The  Land  of  Fire,'  and  they 
called  the  flower  'Copa  de  Oro,'  for  it  resembles 
a  cup  of  gold." 

He  told  of  their  going  into  the  hills  and  find 
ing  another  flower  of  the  same  family,  "and 
they  called  it  'Mariposa,'  "  he  said,  "for  its  col 
oring  and  the  shape  of  its  petals  are  like  the 
wings  of  a  butterfly." 

' '  Father,  I  would  like  to  stay  with  you  longer, 
but  I  must  be  off  for  the  day  is  waning,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  the  padre  by  the  hand  and  bade 
him  good-bye,  and  he  was  soon  alone  on  the 
dusty  road. 

"How  I  should  love  to  paint  the  beauty  of 
this  scene,"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  along  in 
the  evening  breeze  that  mingled  with  the  soft 
perfume  of  the  flowerage  and  came  like  the 
sound  of  sobs.  From  the  glow  of  the  setting 
sun  he  passed  into  the  shadows  of  an  eucalyptus 


Merle  Chapman  Visits  Father  Diaz         57 

grove.  They  were  sometimes  purple,  then  red- 
gold  and  at  times  deep  lavender  color.  "Some 
day  I  shall  return  to  this  spot  and  do  some 
sketching. ' ' 

He  was  an  artist  of  some  note  as  well  as  a 
writer,  and  was  prolific  in  stories  of  the  more 
refined  side  of  life.  His  pen  was  always  in 
harmony  with  his  brush,  and  told  stories  of 
marvelous  tragedy  and  romance  in  words  that 
blend  in  pleasing  harmony,  and  his  brush  gave 
the  grandeur  of  nature  in  tones  few  artists 
would  dare  to  use,  and  here  he  found  material 
for  both.  He  opened  his  sketch  box  that  hung 
from  his  shoulder  and  quickly  made  a  few 
sketches  and  took  some  notes  of  color  effects, 
and  then  whistling  in  undertone,  passed  on 
down  the  road. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


The  moon  came  from  behind  the  Sierras 
while  the  writer  passed  along  the  quiet  country 
road,  stopping  now  and  then  to  make  observa 
tions.  He  was  alone,  but  not  lonesome,  for 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  and  touch  of  summer 
breeze — soft  as  velvet — made  him  almost  bois 
terous  in  imagination. 

1 '  If  I  could  find  that  little  woman  of  the  mis 
sion  wandering  around  here  in  the  stillness  and 
could  take  her  in  my  arms  and  comfort  her, 
what  a  pretty  story  it  would  make,"  he  mused, 
as  he  stopped  to  enjoy  the  perfume  that  came 
from  an  orange  grove  at  the  side  of  the  road. 
While  he  stood  there  in  the  bright  moonlight  a 
wondrous  tenor  voice  came  to  him  from  just 
around  a  turn  in  the  road: 

"Av,  my  little  Romany  chel! 
Av  along  with  mansar ! 
Av,  my  little  Romany  chel ! 
Koshto  si  for  Mangue. ' ' 


<  <  i 


; Gypsies,"  he  said,  and  quickly  crossed  the 
road  and  hid  in  a  field  of  pampa-grass  that  was 


A  Night  in  a  Gypsy  Camp  59 

in  blossom.  Soon  a  young  man  and  a  miss 
came  in  sight.  "They  are  lovers  out  for  a 
stroll,"  he  smiled. 

They  were  dressed  in  brilliant  holiday  attire 
and  the  young  man's  arm  was  around  his  sweet 
heart's  waist  and  her  head  rested  on  his  shoul 
der  as  he  sang  while  they  slowly  walked  along. 

1 '  They  are  lovers  and  will  not  mind  if  I  have 
a  little  fun  at  their  expense,"  he  said  almost 
aloud,  and  then  his  clear  baritone  voice  re 
peated  in  English  the  lines  of  the  love  song, 
for  he  knew  their  dialect: 

"Come  along,  my  little  Gypsy  girl, 
Come  along,  my  little  dear ; 
Come  along,  my  little  Gypsy  girl — 
We'll  wander  far  and  near." 

The  young  woman  clung  tightly  to  her  com 
panion 's  arm  as  they  stopped  to  listen.  They 
made  a  pretty  picture  as  they  stood  in  the 
bright  moon-sweep  with  an  orange  grove  on  one 
side  of  the  road,  and  on  the  other  a  field  of  tall 
white-plumed  grass. 

"Romanies  think  spirits  come  from  the 
ground,"  she  said,  in  a  half  whisper  as  they 
stood  listening,  but  it  was  not  for  long  for  Merle 
came  quietly  from  his  shelter  and  slowly  walked 
to  where  they  stood  and  his  eyes  were  wick- 


60  Alone 

edly  mischievous  as  he  sang  the  last  verse  of  a 
Gypsy  love  song: 

"If  I  were  your  lover  I'd  pillow  my  head 
On  those  tawny  breasts  of  thine  ; 
And  I  would  use  as  lamps  to  light  my  bed, 
Those  eyes  of  sapphire  shine." 

His  friendliness  at  once  awoke  an  altruistic 
feeling  in  the  hearts  of  the  lovers  and  the  three 
young  people  joined  in  hearty  laughter. 

4 'You  must  come  with  us  to  the  feast,"  said 
the  maiden,  with  a  winsome  smile,  as  she  turned 
to  retrace  her  steps,  and  led  the  way  to  a  shel 
tered  nook  where  there  were  several  caravans 
scattered  here  and  there  underneath  graceful 
sycamore  trees.  They  were  Gypsies  of  the  old 
order  and  were  celebrating,  for  a  night  of  each 
year  at  a  stated  time  they  gave  a  feast  at  the 
full  of  the  moon  and  sang  and  danced  and  told 
stories  from  the  setting  of  the  sun  to  the  break- 
o  '-day. 

As  they  came  near  the  camp,  shouts  of  merri 
ment  were  heard.  It  was  a  cool  night  and 
some  wore  flaming  red  cloaks  thrown  over  their 
shoulders,  and  others  sat  on  straw  around 
smouldering  fires  where  kettles  were  boiling. 
The  camp  was  vibrant  with  laughter  of  happy, 
care-free  people  as  they  danced  and  sang  in 


A  Night  in  a  Gypsy  Camp  61 

their  home  near  the  side  of  the  King's  High 
way. 

They  received  the  writer  as  if  he  were  one 
of  their  kin  and  he  heartily  joined  in  the  festi 
vities  that  seemed  more  like  a  song  service,  for 
everyone  sang  and  danced. 

An  old  woman  with  shining  blue-black  hair 
seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  group.  She  in 
tently  watched  the  stranger  for  a  moment  and 
then  continued  her  work  of  putting  the  little 
ones  to  bed.  She  led  a  small  "tot"  to  a  seat 
a  short  way  removed  from  the  gay  throng,  and 
as  she  sat  in  the  shadow,  the  little  one  knelt 
and  placed  his  small  hands  on  her  knees.  Merle 
was  interested,  and  without  causing  attention, 
moved  to  where  he  might  hear  what  she  was 
saying. 

"It's  the  Lord's  Prayer,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  and  then  in  an  undertone  translated  the  old 
woman's  dialect  as  she  repeated  it,  and  the 
little  one  following  as  best  he  could. 

"My  sweet  God,  who  art  there  in  Heaven, 
may  thy  name  come  hallowed ;  may 
thy  kingdom  come  hither;  may  they  do 
all  that  thou  wishest  upon  earth,  as 
in  Heaven.    Give  me  today  my  daily 
bread,  and  forgive  me  all  that  I  can 
not  pay  thee,  as  I  shall  forgive  other 


62  Alone 

men  all  that  they  do  not  pay  me.    Do 
not  let  me  fall  into  evil  desire ;  but 
take  me  out  from  all  wickedness.    For 
thine  is  the  kingdom,  thine  the  power, 
thine  the  glory,  now  and  ever.    May 
God  help  us !    May  no  misfortune  happen 
to  me  in  the  road,  and  may  no  one  steal 
anything  from  me. ' ' 

And  when  she  finished  the  prayer  she  took 
the  little  fellow  in  her  arms  and  sang  a  pretty 
Gypsy  lullaby:  "Sleep  thee,  little  tawny 
boy — ,"  and  the  words  and  tones  grew  softer 
and  softer  until  at  last  the  wee  lids  closed  and 
the  little  one  was  in  slumberland. 

"Talk  about  romance,"  thought  the  writer, 
as  he  turned  to  witness  a  lively  dance  that  was 
in  progress.  "How  care-free  they  seem,"  he 
mused,  as  he  stood  looking  on  and  thought  of 
the  prayer  the  old  woman  had  made  and  how 
in  the  morning  some  of  the  band  might  sally 
forth  to  forage  anything  from  a  young  onion 
to  a  horse.  "Perhaps  they  would  not  think  it 
exactly  stealing,"  he  said  to  himself,  "for  they 
call  the  wide  world  their  home  and  feel  that  all 
therein  is  partly  theirs,  and  the  green  sward  is 
their  carpet  and  they  will  say : '  The  green  grass 
grows  where  the  spirits  tread,  and  the  blue  sky 
is  the  roof  to  our  home.'  " 


A  Night  in  a  Gypsy  Camp  63 

A  maiden  who  sat  on  a  divan  constructed  of 
boards  and  straw  and  covered  with  a  bright 
colored  blanket  attracted  his  attention.  Her 
coal  black  hair  was  plaited  in  the  true  old-fash 
ioned  Gypsy  way,  and  was  partly  covered  with 
a  scarlet  silk  handkerchief  that  was  folded  in 
Egyptian  style ;  a  massive  ring  of  gold  was  sus 
pended  from  each  ear,  and  a  blue  and  yellow 
handkerchief  draped  over  her  shoulders,  and 
around  her  beautiful  tanned  neck  were  several 
strands  of  red  coral  that  rested  upon  her  tawny 
bosom  that  gently  rose  and  fell  beneath  her 
bright  merino  waist  that  was  left  open  at  the 
neck.  She  picked  the  strings  of  an  instrument 
not  unlike  that  of  a  guitar,  and  as  she  fondled 
and  caressed  it,  the  tones  seemed  alive  and 
more  passionate,  as  if  coming  from  her  quiver 
ing  lips. 

Merle  watched  her  closely  for  a  moment. 
"I've  seen  her  somewhere,"  he  thought,  and 
then  he  remembered,  and  with  a  happy  smile 
quietly  said  as  he  moved  close  to  where  she  sat : 

' '  I  met  on  the  hills  a  sprightly  maid, 
Oh !  so  fair  to  see ; 

As  she  drove  her  sheep  with  a  winsome  song 
From  the  hills  to  the  flowering  lea. ' ' 

Her  large,  mellow  eyes  half  closed  as  she 
listened,  and  then  motioned  with  her  head  for 


64  Alone 

him  to  come  and  sit  by  her  side.  The  old  woman 
gave  an  indescribable  Gypsy  look  as  he  made 
himself  comfortable  on  the  improvised  divan. 

"May  I  have  the  little  spray  of  blossoms  you 
wear  on  the  lapel  of  your  coat?"  she  asked,  as 
she  moved  closer  to  him  and  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  took  from  his  coat  a  spray  of 
forget-me-not  he  had  picked  by  the  roadside. 

"I  know  a  pretty  legend  of  the  little  flower," 
she  smiled,  and  then  told  how  Adam  had  named 
all  the  flowers  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  "He 
supposed  he  had  named  them  all,"  she  said, 
"and  was  trying  them  to  see  if  they  remem 
bered  their  names,  and  as  he  called  each  name 
the  blossom  would  nod  its  head.  At  last  when 
he  thought  he  had  called  them  all  and  was  about 
to  turn  away  he  heard  a  small  voice :  'And  what 
am  I  to  be  called,  Adam!'  'I  forgot  you,  my 
little  one,'  he  said,  'but  will  give  you  a  name  we 
all  will  remember,  for  I  shall  call  you  forget- 
me-not.'  " 

Merle  held  her  hand  in  his  as  she  finished 
speaking,  and  looking  in  her  beautiful  eyes 
said :  "  I  have  a  better  memory  than  Adam. ' ' 

Her  dark,  lustrous  eyes  smiled,  but  at  first 
she  did  not  speak.  She  was  a  beautiful  Gypsy, 
with  fascinating  allurements,  and  there  was 
witchery  in  the  graceful  figure  and  exquisitely 


A  Night  in  a  Gypsy  Camp  65 

carved  ruby  lips,  as  she  picked  the  instrument's 
strings.  Her  pretty  lips  pouted  and  smiled  in 
turn  as  Merle  lounged  on  the  divan  and  play 
fully  teased  her.  They  were  both  at  the  time  of 
life  when  sounds  of  the  night  send  the  blood 
rioting  through  the  veins. 

*  *  Come  closer, ' '  she  said,  in  almost  a  whisper. 
1  *  I  am  lonely ;  stay  and  we  will  walk  together. ' ' 

In  the  crisp  morning  air,  a  time  when  all 
nature  is  smiling,  Merle  continued  his  journey, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  enjoy  a  breath  of 
perfume  that  came  from  groups  of  flowers  and 
to  listen  to  the  clear  notes  of  song-birds. 


CHAPTER  Six 

HE  NAMED  THEM  "THE  FOOT-HILLS  OF 
HEAVEN" 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  following 
Merle's  return  from  a  visit  to  Father  Diaz,  and 
he  leisurely  strolled  along  the  ocean  promenade 
that  led  to  the  plaza  of  Govante  Pier. 

"Aunt  Mary  is  true  to  her  word,"  he  laughed, 
as  he  came  near  the  benches  where  people  sat 
listening  to  the  Italian  band.  Aunt  Mary  saw 
him,  and  leaning  heavily  on  her  staff,  came  to 
where  he  stood. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  returned,"  was  her 
pleasant  greeting;  "did  you  have  a  wonderful 
trip?" 

"Not  exactly  wonderful,  but  interesting,"  he 
answered,  and  then  told  of  his  trip  back  to 
the  coast  resort.  "And  as  I  came  near  enough 
to  feel  a  gentle  sea-breeze,  I  passed  through 
the  foot-hills  of  Hollywood. " 

"I  love  Hollywood,"  interrupted  the  old 
woman  and  there  was  a  sadness  in  her  voice  as 
she  spoke,  "and  often  in  my  rambles  and  while 
crossing  over  the  beautiful  foot-hills,  turn  and 


The  Foot-hills  of  Heaven  67 

look  back  o'er  the  mystic  moor  and  on  and  to 
the  sea  and  then  on  beyond  sight,  and  at  night 
I  have  rested  on  those  same  hills  and  lay  watch 
ing  the  lovely  stars,  the  twinkling  stars,  the 
forget-me-nots  of  the  angels.  The  true  name," 
she  continued,  "is  Holywood,  for  near  those 
hills  in  the  year  1769  Junipero  Serra  celebrated 
The  Mass  of  the  Holy  Wood  of  the  Cross,"  and 
she  smiled  pleasantly  when  he  told  of  having 
stood  near  a  bell  of  El  Camino  Real  that 
marks  the  spot.  "It  was  surrounded  by  grey 
green  moss ' '  he  said,  * '  and  shaded  by  a  bloom 
ing  acacia,  and  close  by  stands  a  little  ivy-cov 
ered  church  surrounded  by  flowering  shrubs — 
and  while  I  stood  there  the  Cross  on  the  belfry 
seemed  to  say,  'Best  Thou  in  Me,'  and  he  told 
how  he  slowly  walked  on  and  passed  up  a  few 
board  steps  that  led  to  heavy  oak  doors  that 
swung  on  massive  iron  hinges.  "And  I  sat 
in  the  quiet  of  the  little  church, ' '  he  said,  ' '  and 
far  back  from  where  two  black  (robed  nuns 
knelt  in  prayer  on  a  bench  that  stood  in  front 
of  an  altar  over  which  a  scene  in  cathedral  glass 
depicts  the  landing  of  Columbus — it  is  a  quaint 
little  place  and  all  one  can  see  from  the  main 
road  is  a  cross  that  rises  above  palms  and 
bloom-laden  trees  and  faces  the  purple  moun 
tains  that  shade  in  soft  gradation  in  spring- 


68  Alone 

time's  tender  beauty.  Mountains  where  are 
noiseless  valleys,  and  where  violets  bloom  in 
the  shade  of  trees  interwoven  with  red  trumpet 
vine  and  where  the  rhododendron  hides  and 
where  the  sensitive  plant  open  and  closes  its 
petals,  where  song  birds  nest,  and  the  foot-hills 
of  those  mountains  I  named,  'The  Foot-Hills  of 
Heaven.'  " 

''Quite  appropriate,"  she  smiled,  "for  one 
can  see  the  '  City  of  Angels '  from  those  hills. ' ' 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  Los  Angeles  at  the 
time,"  he  answered,  as  he  continued  his  story: 
"And  I  followed  around  the  edge  of  the  am 
phitheatre  until  I  came  to  Santa  Monica." 

"But  you  did  not  name  that  little  city,"  she 
interrupted,  "for  two  Spanish  soldiers  did 
that.  Would  you  like  to  hear  the  legend?" 

"Yes,  tell  it  to  me,"  he  answered,  as  he  led 
her  to  one  of  the  benches  where  they  might  talk 
and  not  disturb  those  who  had  come  to  listen  to 
the  music.  "I'm  gaining  some  headway,"  he 
thought,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

"According  to  tradition,"  she  began,  "Santa 
Monica  was  reared  in  cruelty  and  when  quite 
young  she  was  married  to  a  man  of  violent 
temper,  and  by  him  she  had  two  sons,  and  one 
of  them  called  Augustine  would  not  be  bap 
tized  into  the  church  but  became  a  heretic  and 


The  Foot-hills  of  Heaven  69 

entered  an  immoral  life.  The  mother  spent 
the  greater  part  of  her  time  praying  for  him. 
He  fell  desperately  sick  and  came  near  death's 
door.  He  was  led  to  believe  his  mother's  pray 
ers  helped  him,  and  he  changed  his  ways  and 
finally  became  the  great  Saint  Augustine.  The 
two  springs  in  the  village  were  really  the 
means  of  the  place  being  called  Santa  Monica, 
for  two  Spanish  soldiers  who  were  off  on  a 
furlough  came  across  the  two  sparkling  springs 
and  one  said :  *  How  much  like  the  tears  of  the 
good  Santa  Monica,  for  she  shed  many  for  her 
erring  son.' 

"It's  a  pretty  legend,"  he  said,  encourag- 
ingljr.  '  *  Now  Aunt  Mary,  tell  me  what,  if  any 
thing,  has  happened  during  my  absence." 
"How  long  is  it  since  you  returned?" 
"I  came  back  yesterday,  but  was  too  tired 
after  my  long  journey  on  foot  to  come  down 
here.  About  twilight  I  went  out  on  the  Pali 
sades  and  sat  on  the  same  old  rustic  bench 
where  we  sat  one  evening  and  watched  the  sun 
go  down.  Just  as  I  was  entering  the  park  I 
met  the  young  man  people  call  Larry  O'Flynn 
hurrying  along  towards  the  further  end  of  the 
park.  You  know  here  in  California  we  lay 
aside  formality,  and  many  a  pleasant  acquaint 
ance  is  made  by  just  casually  speaking  as  we 


70  Alone 

meet  on  the  highways,  so  I  spoke  to  him  and  he 
stopped.  At  first  he  seemed  very  timid — but 
gentlemanly,  and  during  our  conversation  I 
asked  him  if  he  were  not  an  Italian  and  his 
answer  came  quick :  '  No ;  I  am  an  American. ' 

"And  he  denied  being  an  Italian?"  she  asked, 
with  much  spirit. 

"Yes:  and  the  subject  seemed  to  annoy  him 
and  he  quickly  passed  on,  and  shortly  after  I 
had  been  comfortably  seated  on  the  bench  Zita 
came  up  the  long  flight  of  steps  just  as  she  did 
the  night  we  sat  there." 

"Did  you  see  her  that  night?"  she  asked 
sharply,  as  with  half-closed  eyelids  she  watched 
him,  and  her  expression  seemed  to  say, ' '  I  won 
der  how  much  you  know  ? ' ' 

"Well,  go  on,"  she  said  in  undertone. 

"I've  got  her  going,"  he  thought,  and  con 
tinued:  "She  walked  fast  and  took  the  same 
path  she  did  the  night  we  watched  her  and  she 
soon  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the  palms. ' ' 

"How  was  she  dressed?" 

"That  question  seems  odd  coming  at  this  mo 
ment,"  he  answered,  "for  I  took  particular 
notice  of  the  rich  lavender  velvet  gown  she 
wore. ' ' 

"Half  mourning,"  she  said,  with  a  cynical 
smile.  "Her  husband  was  buried  day  before 


The  Foot-hills  of  Heaven  71 

yesterday  and  she  was  weighted  down  with 
crepe  at  the  lonesome  funeral,  and  now  in 
twenty-four  hours  comes  a  dash  of  lavender." 

"I  did  not  know  she  had  lost  her  husband. 
Tell  me  about  it." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once  but  sat  in  silence, 
and  he  saw  by  her  expression  something  out  of 
the  ordinary  was  annoying  her.  He  noticed  she 
was  in  a  frame  of  mind  half  bitter  and  encour 
aged  her  to  talk.  "I'll  get  something  now,"  he 
thought,  as  he  made  an  attempt  at  joviality. 
"Come,  tel!  me  about  it,"  he  laughed,  and  pat 
ted  her  withered  hand  that  rested  on  her  knee. 
"Have  you  got  a  good  joke  for  me?" 

"A  joke,"  she  repeated,  as  she  looked  up  to 
his  smiling  face;  "no,  it  is  not  a  joke — it's  a 
tragedy,"  and  she  told  how  Zita's  husband  had 
died  in  "Salvation  Nell's"  arms.  "And  it  was 
'Salvation  Nell,'  "  she  continued,  "who  did 
everything,  for  she  had  no  woman  friend  ex 
cepting  Madame  Tommasino,"  and  as  she 
spoke  her  eyes  again  half  closed,  "and  I  guess 
Larry  O'Flynn  is  her  only  man  friend." 

"Tell  me,"  interrupted  Merle;  "who  is  this 
Madame  Tommasino?" 

She  spoke  slow  and  low  as  she  answered  his 
question:  "She  is  the  short,  fat  woman  who 
dodges  in  and  out  amongst  the  crowd  and  the 


72  Alone 

people  call  her  'The  Woman  of  Mystery'  for 
she  seldom  stops  to  speak  to  anybody." 

"If  they  were  Zita's  only  friends,  why  were 
they  not  with  her!" 

The  old  woman's  frail  shoulders  shrugged  as 
she  answered  the  question:  "Like  fair  weather 
friends  who  reckon  only  in  the  name,  or  should 
I  say  cowards,  for  they  both  had  wronged  the 
dead  man  and  were  afraid  to  face  enquiring 
eyes;  but  about  four  hours  after  the  funeral 
Larry  O'Flynn  was  seen  passing  up  an  alley 
and  opening  a  gate  where  a  path  led  to  the  back 
door  of  Zita's  bungalow." 

"And  these  two  did  not  attend  the  funeral?" 
he  asked. 

"No;  it  was  a  lonesome  funeral,  and  on  the 
way  to  the  little  cemetery  the  widow  sat  be 
tween  *  Salvation  Nell'  and  an  old  man  from  the 
far  North  who  is  down  here  doing  settlement 
work.  He  is  a  kindly  old  soul  and  when  he 
heard  'Salvation  Nell's'  story  he  went  with  her 
to  see  what  he  could  do  for  the  woman,  for  she 
was  entirely  alone.  He  is  from  a  country  where 
the  heart  is  big  and  a  helping  hand  goes  out 
wherever  it  is  needed.  I  stood  in  the  shadow 
of  a  doorway  and  watched  a  few  men  bear  the 
casket  to  the  hearse,  and  resting  on  the  top  of 
the  coffin  was  a  long  cross  of  violets — a  message 


The  Foot-hills  of  Heaven  73 

of  love  from  the  bereaved  widow,"  and  a  sar 
donic  smile  passed  over  the  old  face  as  she 
spoke. 

"The  old  lady  has  a  deep  sense  of  humor, " 
mused  Merle,  as  he  listened  while  she  told  of 
the  cross  and  deep  mourning  worn  by  the 
widow. 

"The  cross  was  made  the  length  of  the  cas 
ket,  ' '  she  said,  with  a  tinge  of  bitterness,  ' '  and, 
of  course,  was  out  of  proportion. ' ' 

"A  symbol  of  warped  affection,"  interrupted 
Merle. 

"He  was  a  splendid  man,  but  when  the  truth 
was  forced  upon  him  he  tried  to  drown  his  sor 
row  in  drink,  but  it  was  too  great  to  down,  and 
he  sank  under  the  burden  until  at  last  he  died 
alone  in  the  arms  of  '  Salvation  Nell, '  and  while 
the  undertakers  were  preparing  the  body  for 
burial,  Zita  was  on  the  Promenade  with  Larry 
O'Flynn."  She  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  am 
drifting  from  the  subject  of  the  funeral." 

* '  What  you  tell  me  is  sad — but  interesting, ' ' 
he  said,  with  a  desire  not  to  interrupt  her. 

She  did  not  reply  to  his  words. 

"A  little  while  after  the  funeral  I  was  on  the 
concrete  walk  by  the  ocean,  and  as  I  passed  a 
restaurant  I  glanced  in  at  one  of  the  windows 
and  there  sat  the  widow  between  'Salvation 


74  A  lone 

Nell'  and  the  old  man  from  the  North;  she  was 
drowning  her  sorrow  and  breaking  her  fast 
and  looked  very  comfortable  behind  a  plate  of 
ham  and  eggs.  The  old  man  was  a  kind  and 
benevolent  old  fellow  and  often  helped  'Salva 
tion  Nell '  in  her  work.  One  day  I  saw  him  car 
rying  a  pail  of  steaming  hot  macaroni  and  be 
side  him  walked  'Salvation  Nell'  with  her  arms 
full  of  tempting  things  for  an  Italian  family 
who  live  back  on  the  hill.  The  father  was  des 
perately  sick  and  the  mother,  a  frail  little 
woman,  was  taking  care  of  the  sick  and  her 
large  family  of  little  ones,  and  when  'Salva 
tion  NelP  heard  of  the  stricken  family  she  went 
to  them  and  cooked  and  helped  nurse  the  father 
back  to  health.  That  is  just  one  of  her  many 
big-hearted  acts.  She  was  never  idle  and  her 
journeys  of  mercy  took  her  out  not  only  by  day 
but  often  in  the  small  hours  of  night.  'My 
hours  of  pleasure,'  she  used  to  call  them." 

While  they  were  talking  the  young  man  of 
two  names  passed  near  where  they  sat.  He 
smiled  pleasantly  in  acknowledgment  of  a 
greeting  from  the  writer,  and  without  stopping, 
went  to  a  place  where  he  stood  alone  while  lis 
tening  to  the  music. 

He  had  not  been  there  long  before  he  was 
joined  by  the  "Woman  of  Mystery,"  and  soon 


The  Foot-hills  of  Heaven  75 

they  left  the  plaza  and  walked  down  the  shore 
path,  a  part  of  the  beach  few  people  went  for 
recreation.  In  this  section  several  cabins  were 
built  near  the  water,  and  a  little  further  back 
on  a  rise  of  ground,  there  were  some  tenements 
where  fishermen  and  vendors  of  the  pier  lived. 

Merle  noticed  the  direction  in  which  they 
went.  "I  would  like  to  follow  them,"  he 
thought,  "but  how  am  I  going  to  get  away  I" 

He  sat  for  a  moment  and  then  turning  to 
Aunt  Mary  said :  * '  I  think  I  must  be  going,  for 
I  am  very  tired  tonight. ' ' 

'  *  Please  forgive  me,  Mr.  Chapman,  for  speak 
ing  quickly  of  Zita  and  Larry;  harsh  words  do 
not  help  in  this  world. ' ' 

Tears  dimmed  her  eyes  as  she  finished  speak 
ing. 

"You  dear  soul;  of  course,  I  will  forgive 
you,"  and  he  gave  her  an  affectionate  pat  on 
the  shoulder  as  he  turned  away  and  at  a  safe 
distance  followed  the  "Woman  of  Mystery" 
and  Larry.  At  any  time  he  was  not  far  from 
them,  for  the  night  was  dark  and  his  footsteps 
could  not  be  heard  above  the  swirl  of  the  water 
and  the  voices  of  the  fishermen  as  they  sang 
folk  melodies. 

Soon  they  entered  a  cabin  near  where  the 
fishermen  were  arranging  their  nets  and  pre- 


76  Alone 

paring  their  boats  for  an  early  morning  start. 
They  stopped  their  work  and  silently  watched 
the  old  woman  and  young  man  as  they  passed 
by  and  did  not  hear  Merle  approach. 

"Who  are  those  people!"  he  asked. 

With  a  half  surprised  expression  playing 
over  each  face,  they  looked  around  at  the 
stranger. 

"Do  not  be  frightened,"  he  laughed;  "I  am  a 
friend. ' ' 

They  were  a  jovial  lot,  and  one  with  a  merry 
laugh  said:  "The  old  dame  poses  as  a  retired 
opera  singer,"  and  with  a  knowing  smile  di 
rected  to  his  companions,  continued:  "And  is 
here  telling  fortunes  just  to  while  away  the 
time  in  the  gentle  sea-breeze,  and  the  fellow  is 
called  Signor  O'Flynn,"  and  they  all  laughed 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  Irish  title,  and  the  one 
speaking  gave  a  wink  of  the  eye.  "The  Sig 
nor  loves  to  watch  the  break-o'-day  from  this 
particular  point  and  see  the  mist  over  the  lea 
rise  as  if  lifting  a  veil  from  the  beautiful  foot 
hills  that  sparkle  like  jewels  in  the  morning's 
glow. ' ' 

"Almost  a  poet,"  jokingly  laughed  one  of  the 
listeners. 

"You  see,  pard,"  spoke  up  another  who  was 


The  Foot-hills  of  Heaven  77 

spreading  a  net  while  listening,  ''living  in  this 
atmosphere  we  take  on  the  poetic." 

And  with  a  hearty  laugh  they  again  went 
about  their  work. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

A  NIGHT  GHOSTS  WALK 

Heavy  clouds  of  fog  rolled  in  from  the  sea 
and  hung  over  the  Palisades,  and  through  the 
mist  came  the  weird  call  of  the  "bug-boy": 
"All-a-board!  All-a-board ! " 

Merle  hurried  down  the  trail  that  led  from 
the  crags  to  the  promenade  where  the  cluster 
lights  were  dimmed  by  the  vapor  and  were  as 
weird  as  the  tram-driver's  call,  and  the  bell- 
buoy's  doleful  sound  never  seemed  as  funereal 
as  it  did  this  evening.  "Just  move  along  a 
little,"  said  the  boy,  as  he  rang  up  a  fare, 
"there  is  room  for  another — move  up,  please." 

When  the  last  call  "All-a-board!"  came  there 
was  no  part  of  the  tram  to  be  seen,  and  soon  a 
mass  of  human  beings  began  to  slowly  move 
through  the  fog.  It  was  like  a  number  of  people 
sitting  close  together  on  the  back  of  a  deep  sea 
turtle,  and  the  speed  of  the  tram  would  sug 
gest  the  same,  and  the  small  boy  named  the 
tram  ' '  the  bug. ' ' 

"The  sea  is  heavy  tonight,"  said  a  passen 
ger,  but  no  response  came  from  the  one  ad- 


A  Night  Ghosts  Walk  79 

dressed,  so  he  turned  up  his  coat  collar  and  sat 
in  silence. 

As  they  came  near  Govante  Pier,  Merle  did 
not  hear  the  customary  sound  of  the  band.  ' '  Is 
there  to  be  no  music  tonight?"  he  asked  of  the 
driver. 

"Oh,  yes";  answered  the  boy,  "the  band 
plays  in  the  dance  pavilion  on  nights  like  this. ' ' 

The  writer  held  his  cloak  closer  around  his 
body  and  walked  on  down  the  pier  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  pavilion.  "It  is  like  fairyland,"  he 
mused,  "or  should  I  say  the  mystic  land  that 
lies  towards  the  borders.  No,"  he  smiled,  "I'll 
make  it  a  fairyland,  and  I  will  have  elfins  flit 
by  and  fairies  dance  while  waving  a  golden 
wand. ' ' 

He  slowly  walked  on  a  few  steps  and  then 
stopped  quickly  to  listen,  and  he  heard  through 
the  mist:  "All-a-board!  All-a-board  for  Santa 
Monica!  It's  the  last  call!"  and  as  he  listened, 
the  sound  of  the  voice  died  in  the  distance.  The 
mist  forming  into  pearl-like  drops  hung  from 
gaudy  show-signs  and  overhanging  wires,  and 
in  the  glare  of  the  lights  sparkled  like  jewels. 

"Oh,  what  a  mysterious  night,"  he  thought. 
"It's  a  night  ghosts  walk  and  there  seems  to 
be  a  strife  for  supremacy  between  romance  and 
tragedy. ' ' 


80  Alone 

When  he  reached  the  pavilion  he  did  not  go 
in.  "It's  too  stuffy  in  there,"  he  said  in  un 
dertone,  "and  the  night  is  too  intensely  inter 
esting  outside,"  and  he  continued  his  walk 
towards  the  end  of  the  pier  that  was  twisting 
and  groaning  as  the  swirl  of  the  water  pressed 
against  the  piling,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a 
story  in  the  swish  of  the  spray. 

There  stood  a  figure  in  dim  outline  leaning 
against  the  railing  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
pier  where  once  he  had  seen  Aunt  Mary  stand 
in  the  deep  shadows  of  night. 

"Can  it  be  possible  she  is  here  all  alone  in 
this  dampness?"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  hur 
ried  on,  and  when  but  a  few  steps  from  the  spot 
he  stopped  suddenly.  "It's  a  man,"  he  said, 
almost  aloud,  for  at  the  sound  of  footsteps 
Larry  O'Flynn  had  turned  and  faced  him. 
There  were  no  words  spoken  for  a  moment,  and 
Larry  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"I  often  come  here  at  night  and  listen  to  the 
breakers  dash  against  the  pier,  but  I  am  too 
cowardly  to  plunge  in." 

"Why  plunge  in?"  asked  Merle,  trying  hard 
to  conceal  his  surprise. 

"I  am  no  good  to  the  world,  and  have  never 
been  given  a  place  in  it, ' '  he  said  bitterly.  * '  My 
father  committed  suicide  here,  but  he  had  more 


A  Night  Ghosts  Walk  81 

nerve  than  I  have."  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  with  a  cruel  curl  of  the  upper  lip,  said : 
'  *  I  hate  his  memory  anyway, ' '  and  as  he  looked 
up  his  expression  showed  that  he  wished  he  had 
not  spoken  so  hastily. 

1 l  Young  man, ' '  said  Merle,  as  he  took  him  by 
the  arm,  "is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  make 
you  see  life  in  a  different  light,  for  one's  body 
should  be  a  garden  where  love  and  kind 
thoughts  bloom,  and  we  can — if  we  will — rad 
iate  sunshine  wherever  we  go." 

The  writer's  friendliness  won  the  young 
man's  confidence,  and  he  looked  around  as  if 
searching  for  some  place  where  they  might  sit 
down. 

Merle  noticed  and  quickly  said :  * '  Suppose  we 
go  to  some  quiet  spot  and  talk  it  over,"  and  he 
led  the  way  to  a  place  where  soft  drinks  were 
served  and  there  were  nooks  here  and  there 
where  small  tables  stood.  "This  is  cozy,"  he 
suggested,  as  they  took  seats  in  a  nook  close  by 
a  window  where  they  could  look  out  and  see  the 
mystic  lights  of  the  pier. 

"Mr.  Chapman,  you  are  the  first  man  who 
has  ever  shown  a  kindly  interest  in  me,  and  you 
know—  '  he  hesitated  and  smiled  sadly,  "it  is 
human  nature  to  crave  the  friendship  of  some 
one  in  whom  we  deem  we  can  confide.  I  was 


82  Alone 

born  into  the  world  without  a  name,  and  alone 
I  have  wandered  without  a  true  friend." 

1  'I  notice  you  have  one  friend,"  said  Merle, 
watching  him  closely  as  he  spoke. 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  quickly,  and 
with  some  resentment  showing  in  his  voice. 
' '  The  old  woman  called  Madame  Tommasino  ? ' ' 

"Coming  fast,"  thought  Merle,  as  he  said: 
"No,  Zita";  but  he  did  not  mean  the  words  he 
spoke. 

The  young  man's  eyelids  closed,  and  he  bit 
his  lips,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"I  married  her  today,"  he  said,  without  look 
ing  up. 

"You  married  her  today!"  It  was  more  than 
the  writer  had  expected  to  hear,  and  he  could 
not  keep  from  showing  surprise.  "Why,  her 
husband  has  only  been  dead  several  days,  and 
she  is  much  older  than  you!" 

"I  know  that,  but  Madame  Tommasino  sug 
gested  it, ' '  and  as  he  spoke  his  face  flushed  and 
he  hung  his  head, ' '  and  I  did  as  she  suggested. ' ' 

"A  weak  character,"  thought  Merle,  "and  I 
believe,  another  case  of  the  criminal  use  of 
hypnotism. ' ' 

"And  while  doing  so,"  continued  the  young 
man,  "I  felt  that  it  was  but  another  coil  the 
woman  was  winding  about  me." 


A  Night  Ghosts  Walk  83 

He  sat  gazing  into  space  for  some  time  be 
fore  again  speaking,  and  then  turning  to  Merle, 
said  in  uncertain  tones :  * '  I  thought  at  first  you 
meant  the  Madame  was  my  friend. ' '  He  moved 
his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side  as  he  contin 
ued:  "I  am  her  slave,  and  have  been  for  some 
time  past." 

"Do  you  feel  that  you  could  confide  in  me?" 
asked  the  writer,  carefully  feeling  his  way. 

"I  am  about  at  the  breaking  point,"  he  an 
swered,  while  wringing  his  hands,  "and  must 
talk  with  some  one.  I  have  never  told  the  story 
of  my  life  to  anyone,  but  it  was  stolen  from  me 
and  in  some  way  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  Ma 
dame  Tommasino  and  she  has  used  it  for  her 
purpose,"  and  as  he  finished  speaking  and  sat 
with  down-cast  eyes,  he  seemed  but  a  boy  and 
his  features  were  as  effeminate  as  a  girl 's. 

"I  would  rather  study  a  character  like  his 
when  he  is  silent,"  mused  Merle,  "for  speech 
conceals  his  real  thoughts." 

For  some  little  time  neither  one  spoke. 

'  *  Is  there  no  way  by  which  you  can  rid  your 
self  of  her,'"  earnestly  asked  Merle,  for  he 
found  himself  becoming  more  interested  in  the 
boy  than  just  looking  for  a  story. 

"No,"  came  the  quick  answer.    "When  she' 
is  near  me  I  experience  a  most  peculiar  sensa- 


84  Alone 

tion,  and  am  powerless  to  combat  any  sugges 
tion  she  may  make." 

"Auto-suggestion,"  said  the  writer  to  him 
self,  as  he  watched  the  pale  face  of  the  young 
man  and  encouraged  him  to  talk. 

"When  I  was  eighteen  years  of  age,"  he  said 
in  beginning  his  story,  and  then  he  told  how 
from  infancy  to  that  age  he  had  lived  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  O'Flynn,  whom  he  thought  were  his 
parents. 

"They  gave  me  a  good  education,  and  I  was 
considered  an  accomplished  violinist,"  he  said, 
"and  Mrs.  O'Flynn  showered  much  affection 
upon  me,  for  she  did  not  know  I  was  not  her 
own  son.  It  was  O'Flynn  who  was  the  crimi 
nal,"  he  stopped  speaking  for  his  voice  trem 
bled  with  bitterness,  but  only  for  a  short  time. 

1 '  I  was  eighteen  years  of  age  when  the  awful 
truth  was  told  me.  A  woman  whom  I  thought 
was  my  aunt,  a  sister  of  Mr.  0  'Flynn,  lay  dying 
and  I  was  told  to  stay  in  the  room  with  her  un 
til  she  breathed  her  last,  for  the  O'Flynns  were 
afraid  of  death.  Only  a  boy  in  experience,  but 
I  felt  that  dissolution  was  near  at  hand.  When 
I  closed  the  door,  she  looked  steadily  at  me  for 
awhile  and  then  back  at  the  door.  'Where  is  my 
brother  ? '  she  asked  feebly,  and  when  I  told  her 
he  was  in  the  house  but  would  not  be  in  the 


A  Night  Ghosts  Walk  85 

room,  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  her  voice 
was  hardly  audible:  'And  I  am  to  be  left  alone 
to  die?'  she  asked,  with  trembling  lips.  I  told 
her  she  would  not  be  alone,  for  I  would  stay 
with  her  to  the  last,  and  when  I  called  her  aunt, 
her  eyes  protruded  and  she  looked  at  me  with  a 
wild  stare :  1 1  am  not  your  aunt, '  she  said  with 
a  feeble  voice,  and  motioned  to  me  to  come  near 
her  bed.  'Go  to  my  dresser,'  she  whispered, 
'  and  bring  to  me  a  sealed  envelope  you  will  find 
underneath  the  lining  paper  of  the  top  drawer. ' 

"I  did  as  she  requested  and  her  eyes  followed 
every  movement  I  made,  and  when  I  handed  the 
envelope  to  her  she  said  in  almost  a  whisper: 
'Yes,  that  is  it,'  and  while  speaking,  she  turned 
her  eyes  towards  the  door  as  if  frightened,  and 
then  back  to  me.  'Put  it  in  your  pocket,  quickly. ' 
She  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  and  then  with 
feeble  voice,  continued :  '  I  have  had  it  written 
for  some  time;  I  could  not  rest  until  I  did  it, 
and  it  will  tell  you  my  story  and  who  you  are.' 

"She  placed  her  trembling  hand  on  my  arm. 
'Put  it  in  your  pocket,'  she  whispered,  'where 
it  will  be  safe,  and  then  her  eyes  were  appealing 
as  she  said:  'Arturo,  forgive  me  for  what  I 
have  done.' 

"I  did  not  at  the  time  understand  why  she 
called  me  Arturo,  but  I  do  now,  and  as  I  stood 


86  Alone 

watching  her  the  eyes  gradually  lost  expression 
and  I  knew  all  was  over. ' ' 

"And  you  lost  that  envelope,"  said  Merle,  in 
a  voice  of  surprise  and  almost  disgust. 

"No;  I  did  not  lose  it.  After  I  recovered 
from  the  shock  its  contents  gave  me,  I  went 
to  Los  Angeles  and  had  two  typewritten  copies 
made  for  fear  something  might  happen  to  the 
original.  I  keep  the  original  right  here  in  the 
inside  pocket  of  my  vest." 

At  these  words  the  writer's  expression 
changed  to  one  of  satisfaction,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  kept  from  showing  his  curiosity 
to  see  the  document. 

"After  the  funeral  I  gave  one  copy  to  the 
O'Flynns,  and  they  do  not  know  but  what  it 
was  the  original,  and  oh!  what  a  commotion 
there  was  in  the  family.  Mrs.  O'Flynn  became 
hysterical  to  an  extent  bordering  on  insanity, 
and  at  first  would  not  believe  the  story,  but 
O'Flynn  soon  settled  the  matter  by  making  a 
confession  of  his  guilt,  and  after  that  they 
destroyed  the  document  thinking  we  three  were 
the  only  ones  who  knew  of  the  crime,  and  Mrs. 
O'Flynn  said:  'We  will  go  on  living  just  as 
we  always  have,'  and  they  threatened  to  kill 
me  if  I  should  ever  tell  the  story." 

"Then  you  lost  the  other  copy?" 


A  Night  Ghosts  Walk  87 

"Yes";  he  answered,  and  there  was  guilt 
written  on  his  face  as  he  spoke,  for  he  was 
ashamed  to  tell  where  he  had  lost  it. 

"I  wonder  if  I  dare  take  a  chance,"  thought 
Merle, '  *  and  ask  to  see  the  original. ' '  He  spec 
ulated  much  while  the  young  man  sat  in  silence. 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  say  for  advice," 
he  said,  carefully  feeling  his  way,  * '  for  I  do  not 
know  the  story. ' ' 

The  young  man's  expression  had  changed 
and  was  sad,  but  honest,  as  his  eyes  met 
Merle's  steady  gaze. 

"I  am  going  to  show  it  to  you,"  and  as  he 
spoke  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  much  soiled  and 
worn  envelope  that  was  sealed. 

"This  seal  has  not  been  broken  since  the 
paper  was  put  in  the  envelope." 

* '  Perhaps  he  is  fooled, ' '  thought  Merle,  as  he 
watched  the  man;  "some  thief  may  have 
removed  it  and  placed  a  new  seal  where  the  old 
one  had  been,"  and  it  seemed  to  him  the  boy 
was  slow  in  unfolding  a  paper  that  was  care 
fully  wrapped  around  a  small  oval  photograph. 
The  bit  of  card-board  fell  to  the  floor  and  the 
writer  quickly  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  and  to 
his  surprise,  the  young  man  did  not  reach  out 
his  hand  for  the  card,  but  carefully  smoothed 
out  the  creased  paper. 


88  Alone 

When  Merle  glanced  at  the  oval  card-board 
he  held  in  his  hand,  he  gave  a  start  and  then 
looked  intently  at  the  young  man  and  then  back 
again  at  the  picture,  and  all  this  time  the  boy  did 
not  speak,  but  his  eyes  showed  much  interest  in 
the  writer's  surprised  expression  as  his  mind 
traveled  from  the  young  man's  face  to  the 
unfinished  picture  that  stood  on  an  easel  in  the 
little  studio  of  the  old  Mission  where  he  had 
made  a  visit  to  Father  Diaz. 

They  sat  for  some  time  in  intense  silence,  for 
Merle's  mind  was  far  away,  and  he  was  repeat 
ing  to  himself  the  line  he  had  seen  written  on 
the  smooth  surface  of  the  easel  that  showed  just 
above  the  picture : 

' '  In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 
Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee." 

The  young  man  broke  the  silence,  and  his 
voice  was  low  as  he  handed  the  paper  to  Merle. 

"Bead  this,"  he  said,  in  undertone,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  looked  around  to  see  if  there  was  any 
one  near  enough  to  hear.  "Mr.  Chapman,  I 
will  listen  while  you  read  Annie  O'Flynn's 
confession." 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

THE  CONFESSION 

The  sound  of  the  breakers  dashing  against 
the  rocks  was  like  cannonading. 

"The  storm  seems  to  be  increasing,"  said 
Merle,  as  he  nervously  took  the  paper  from  the 
young  man's  hand.  The  wind  outside  moaned 
and  moaned,  while  the  swish  of  the  water  almost 
reached  the  rows  of  sea-gulls  sleeping  on  tim 
bers  that  extended  out  from  the  pier. 

"Bead,  it,"  again  suggested  the  young  man. 
"A  night  like  this  frightens  me  and  I  want 
something  doing." 

"A  sad  state  of  mind  for  one's  wedding 
night,"  mused  Merle,  as  he  began  to  read  the 
document  that  was  in  the  form  of  a  letter.  It 
was  dated  and  addressed  to  Arturo  Bonino. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  begin  this,"  Merle 
read,  and  then  stopped  a  moment  and  watched 
the  boy's  expression  change  from  a  mild, 
appealing  look  to  one  of  hate. 

As  they  sat  in  silence,  the  writer  glanced  out 
of  the  window  and  saw  Aunt  Mary  coming  from 
the  end  of  the  pier,  and  as  he  watched  her  she 
turned  her  head,  as  if  drawn  by  a  magnet,  to 


90  Alone 

the  window  near  where  they  sat,  but  her  eyes 
did  not  turn  to  him,  for  they  seemed  riveted  on 
the  boy  who  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
small  table. 

"Do  you  know  her!"  he  asked  the  writer. 

"I  have  often  seen  her  as  she  stands  gazing 
at  you,"  Merle  answered  evasively. 

"Yes;  she  hardly  ever  comes  my  way  but 
what  she  stops  and  watches  me  for  awhile,  and 
then  passes  on." 

Merle  did  not  wish  to  tell  of  his  meeting  with 
the  old  woman,  for  he  wanted  the  boy  to  talk, 
but  all  he  said  was :  '  *  Please  go  on, ' '  and  Merle 
continued  to  read: 

1  'I  am  not  going  to  ask  forgiveness  for  any 
thing  I  have  done — God  knows  I  have  repented ; 
but  perhaps  I  am  old  and  realize  my  last  hour 
is  near  at  hand.  Perhaps  if  I  could  have 
stayed  young  and  beautiful  I  would  have 
remained  reckless — who  knows ;  therefore  I  am 
not  going  to  be  a  hypocrite  at  the  last  hour.  I 
have  wanted,  oh!  so  often,  to  tell  you  many 
things,  but  have  been  too  cowardly,  and  now  as 
I  write  them  there  is  too  much  fear  and  remorse 
in  me  to  face  you.  Perhaps  I  would  not  suffer 
so  intensely  if  I  knew  where  and  how  your 
mother  is ;  she  was  so  beautiful  and  frail  like  a 
dainty  orchid. ' ' 


The  Confession  91 

Merle  stopped  reading  and  looked  to  where 
the  boy  sat  with  tear-dimnied  eyes.  He  did  not 
speak  to  the  young  man,  but  continued  his 
reading : 

"Late  one  night  an  Italian  violinist,  a  hand 
some  young  fellow  and  a  musician  of  note, 
brought  her  to  my  house — a  place  in  the  under 
world — and  he  gave  me  a  letter  from  my 
brother  who  owned  the  building,  and  in  that 
letter  he  wrote,  'Bonino  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
but  in  hard  luck ;  take  the  girl  in  and  care  for 
her  and  I  will  see  you  later.'  She  was  a  beau 
tiful  girl  of  Spanish  birth,  and  Bonino  loved 
her  dearly. 

"Let  me  make  a  few  comments,"  said  the 
writer,  as  he  stopped  reading  and  laid  the 
paper  on  the  table  before  him.  "Let  me  tell 
you,  Arturo,"  and  as  he  noticed  the  boy's  sur 
prised  expression,  he  said  in  way  of  explan 
ation:  "I  call  you  by  that  name  for  it  is  the 
name  used  in  addressing  the  communication, 
and  perhaps  your  mother  gave  it  to  you.  She 
says  in  this  confession:  'Bonino  loved  her 
dearly.'  That  statement  is  absolutely  false, 
for  there  is  not  a  man  living  who  will  wrong 
the  woman  he  loves.  Love  is  spiritual,  and  the 
true  woman  would  tear  open  her  breast  to 
warm  the  heart  of  the  man  she  loves,  and  that 


92  Alone 

man  would  go  through  fire  and  hell  to  protect 
her.  Arturo,  these  are  words  it  would  be  well 
for  you  to  remember  during  your  journey 
through  life,"  and  as  he  spoke  these  words  he 
took  up  the  paper  and  continued  to  read:  "And 
she  in  turn  placed  her  whole  faith  in  him — 
a  weak,  temperamental  character.  A  few  days 
later  a  little  boy  was  born  into  the  world. 
About  the  same  time  a  child  was  born  to  my 
brother  and  his  wife.  Two  months  later  my 
sister-in-law  was  called  east  on  account  of  the 
serious  illness  of  her  mother,  and  the  child  was 
placed  in  my  care.  She  was  away  for  several 
months,  and  during  that  time  the  child  died. 
I  found  it  dead  one  morning.  In  some 
unaccountable  way,  the  bedding  had  fallen  over 
its  face  and  smothered  it  to  death.  My  brother 
was  afraid  of  the  consequence  of  a  disclosure 
to  his  wife,  so  after  much  bartering,  he  per 
suaded  the  Italian  to  sell  him  his  baby  and  sup 
planted  it  in  the  place  his  own  child's  death 
had  left  vacant,  and  you — instead  of  being  the 
child  of  Dennis  O'Flynn — you  are  the  son  of 
the  noted  violinist,  Albert  Bonino.  When 
Bonino  saw  the  terror  in  the  eyes  of  the  young 
mother  when  he  told  her  the  child  had  been 
taken  away,  remorse  drove  him  to  the  end  of 
Govante  Pier  where  he  committed  suicide  by 


The  Confession  93 

plunging  into  the  breakers  that  dash  against 
the  rocks,  and  after  that  we  swore  your 
mother 's  liberty  away,  and  she  was  placed  in  an 
asylum,  and  after  a  few  years'  confinement 
there,  she  escaped  from  the  institution  and  has 
never  been  heard  from  since.  The  small,  oval 
photograph  I  enclose  in  this  is  a  picture  of  your 
father."  The  document  was  signed  Annie 
O'Flynn. 

"Mr.  Chapman,  that  is  all  I  know  of  my 
parentage,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how  hard 
I  tried  to  locate  my  mother." 

"Some  day  you  will  see  your  mother,  and 
your  souls  will  blend  like  the  meeting  of 
waters,"  said  the  writer,  without  raising  his 
eyes  to  where  the  boy  sat. 

"Life  is  hard,"  he  said  to  himself,  without 
changing  position  or  looking  up,  "but  I  believe 
he  will  meet  it  if  I  can  rouse  him  to  the  meaning 
or  value  of  it  all.  He  is  only  one  of  many 
unfortunates  of  this  type.  A  curse  not 
brought  on  by  himself.  It  lies  with  me  to  teach 
him  to  see  life  in  a  different  aspect. ' ' 


CHAPTER  NINE 

HE  TELLS  OF  HIS  WANDERINGS 

The  young  man  consulted  his  watch  when 
the  last  of  the  merry-makers  were  leaving  the 
room. 

"You  know  this  is  my  wedding  night,"  he 
said,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  sarcasm  as  he 
spoke,  "and  we  are  going  to  spend  our  honey 
moon  with  the  Madame. ' ' 

"At  her  little  house?"  asked  Merle  in  much 
surprise,  for  the  place  looked  so  unromantic 
as  it  stood  on  the  sands  near  the  surf,  and  near 
the  cabins  of  some  fishermen  who  spent  the 
hours  of  grey  dawn  in  their  boats,  and  as  the 
sun  rode  through  the  heavens,  they  came 
ashore  and  spread  thin  brown  nets  on  the 
drifted  sands,  and  while  the  cords  were  dry 
ing,  sang  fisherman  songs,  smoked  strong 
pipes,  and  lounged  in  the  shadows  of  sea-gulls 
flying. 

"And  the  bride,"  he  smiled  bitterly,  "may 
be  awaiting  the  coming  of  the  groom." 

"It  is  not  so  very  late,"  suggested  the 
writer,  for  he  was  anxious  to  get  the  rest  of  the 


He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings  95 

story  while  the  young  man  was  in  a  talkative 
mood. 

"I  know  it  is  not,  and  I  am  going  to  stay  and 
talk  with  you,  and  tell  you  of  my  years  of 
wandering,  and  of  the  fruitless  search  for  my 
mother.  After  Annie  O'Flynn's  disclosure, 
life  at  the  0  'Flynn  home  was  unbearable.  Mr. 
O'Flynn  felt  bitter  towards  me  for  disclosing 
his  guilt,  and  his  wife's  attitude  changed  from 
that  of  a  loving  mother  to  a  sweetheart,  and  she 
wanted  to  use  me  as  a  means  to  punish  her 
husband,  and  the  situation  became  vile;  so  one 
night  after  all  was  quiet,  with  only  my  violin 
and  a  small  valise  in  which  I  had  put  some  nec 
essaries,  I  left  their  home.  I  had  let  my  hair 
grow  long,  and  dressed  as  I  thought  my  father 
looked,  and  all  the  time  I  had  my  mother  in 
mind  and  thought  if  she  were  alive  and  saw 
me,  she  might  think  I  was  her  son  and  in  some 
way  make  herself  known  to  me. 

"Mr.  Chapman,  to  this  day,  I  watch  every 
woman  who  comes  to  the  plaza,  and  when  one 
hesitates  and  looks  at  me  inquiringly,  my  heart 
bounds,  only  to  settle  back  and  ache  and  ache 
as  they  quietly  pass  on. ' ' 

And  he  told  how  he  had  gone  from  town  to 
town  in  search  of  work  in  places  where  many 
people  of  all  classes  gathered. 


96  Alone 

"When  I  left  the  O'Flynn  home,  I  only  had 
a  few  dollars,  and  in  a  short  time  I  found  my 
self  without  means."  His  face  flushed  as  he 
continued:  "I  was  proud — I  know  it  was  false 
pride,  but  I  went  hungry  for  a  long  time,  and 
one  night  in  the  first  town  I  stopped  at,  when  I 
was  very  faint  from  hunger,  I  went  into  a 
saloon  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  for 
a  short  time,  and  then — faint  from  the  lack  of 
food — sat  down  on  one  of  the  rough  benches 
and  began  to  play.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Chapman, 
the  lunch-counter  looked  pretty  good  to  me 
when  I  was  playing.  The  music  was  unusual 
for  a  resort  of  that  type,  and  my  coming  to  the 
place  as  I  did  interested  the  loungers  and  they 
gathered  around  to  listen.  I  remember  very 
little  what  happened  after  I  began  to  play,  for 
I  became  dizzy  and  a  haze  seemed  to  pass  over 
everything  about  me,  and  then  I  knew  no  more 
until  I  awoke  the  following  morning  in  a 
strange  place,  a  room  poorly  furnished — but 
neat,  and  I  soon  learned  it  was  the  bar-tender's 
room,  for  he  lay  asleep  on  the  floor  beside  my 
bed.  My  stirring  woke  him  and  he  was  up  in 
a  moment  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I 
wanted. ' ' 

As  Merle  listened  to  the  boy's  story  of  kind 
ness  extended  to  him  by  a  stranger,  he  said 


He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings  97 

to  himself:  "One  of  the  great  big  hearts 
found  among  the  class  the  world  wishes  to  call 
the  common  people." 

"I  had  been  undressed  and  put  to  bed,  and 
while  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness  had  been 
given  nourishment,  for  the  man  as  he  smoothed 
out  my  bedding  said:  'I  am  going  down 
stairs  and  make  you  another  egg-nog  and  you 
must  stay  in  bed  all  morning. '  He  did  not  ask 
me  any  questions." 

The  writer's  smile  was  happy  and  one  of 
satisfaction,  for  he  loved  to  hear  of  the  good 
deeds  of  this  class  of  people  who  live  a  natural 
life. 

"I  could  not  tell  my  story  anyway  if  he 
should  have  asked,  and  I  was  oh,  so  thankful 
for  his  silence  on  the  subject.  The  town  was 
small  and  I  stayed  but  a  few  days,"  and  as  he 
finished  speaking  he  sat  for  some  time  quietly 
looking  down  at  the  floor. 

"Each  hour  the  case  grows  more  interest 
ing,  ' '  mused  Merle,  as  he  watched  the  boy. 

"I  did  not  know  what  position  in  life  my 
mother  might  be  in  if  she  still  lived,  so  I  went 
everywhere  I  could,"  he  continued,  but  while 
speaking  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the  floor. 
"I  was  two  months  traveling  from  Los  Angeles 
to  San  Francisco,  for  I  made  the  journey  on 


98  Alone 

foot.  From  the  town  where  I  first  stopped,  I 
went  to  a  fashionable  resort  and  tried  hard  to 
get  work,  but  could  not.  There  was  a  prome 
nade  near  the  water-front  where  society  gath 
ered  afternoons  and  evenings,  so  I  took  my 
violin  and  played  on  one  of  the  corners  of  a 
street  where  the  greater  number  of  people 
passed,  thinking  if  my  mother  was  one  of  the 
throng  she  might  hear  and  come  to  where  I 
stood.  I  was  jostled  and  sometimes  pushed  off 
the  side-walk.  I  do  not  want  to  brag,  but  my 
music  was  of  a  high  order.  At  last  a  policeman 
came  to  me  and  said:  'Give  us  a  little  "rag 
time"  or  else  move  on.  These  people  don't 
want  your  kind  of  music,'  and  he  pushed  me 
into  the  street.  The  second  day  after  that  I  was 
arrested  for  obstructing  the  walk,  and  after  a 
night  spent  in  jail  I  was  released  upon  the 
promise  to  leave  town." 

' '  No  egg-nogs  in  that  bunch, ' '  laughed  Merle, 
and  his  joviality  cheered  the  boy  and  his  story 
lost  much  of  the  sadness  and  in  a  way  became 
spirited,  but  a  tinge  of  bitterness  showed  now 
and  then. 

"At  last  after  varied  experiences,  I  reached 
San  Francisco,  and  in  a  few  days  obtained 
employment  in  a  music  store,  and  when  it  was 
learned  I  could  play  the  violin  I  was  asked  to 


He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings  99 

play  in  a  church  on  Sundays,  and  that  gave  me 
some  extra  money.  Soon  invitations  to  social 
affairs  came  and  I  was  asked  to  play  at  recitals. 
Among  the  customers  who  came  to  the  store 
was  Madame  Tommasino,  and  that  is  where  I 
first  met  her." 

"And  she  has  been  in  your  life  ever  since?" 

"Yes,"  was  all  he  said,  as  his  eyes  again 
rested  on  the  floor  and  it  was  some  moments 
before  he  spoke.  Merle  sat  quietly  watching  the 
fast  changing  expression  of  the  young  man. 

"She  came  often";  he  hesitated  again  and 
his  flushed  face  was  a  study  to  the  writer,  for 
he  saw  fear  and  shame  written  there. 

"The  men  clerks  in  the  store  warned  me  but 
I  did  not  understand,  for  I  knew  little  of  life 
in  those  days." 

"The  knowledge  you  have  gained  since," 
said  Merle,  "will  not  hurt  you,  for  to  know 
life  makes  a  firm  and  safer  foundation  for  a 
character.  You  told  me  the  story  of  your  life 
fell  into  the  hands  of  this  woman  Tommasino, ' ' 
and  the  writer  remembered  having  noticed  the 
shame  on  the  boy's  face  when  making  the 
statement,  and  he  said  to  himself:  "Father 
Diaz's  suspicion  was  correct." 

"Yes";  was  all  the  answer  the  young  man 
gave. 


100  Alone 

"Was  she  ever  acquainted  with  Mr. 
O'Flynn?" 

"Yes;  they  are  friends  of  long  standing,  but 
Mrs.  O'Flynn  detests  her.  I  did  not  know  all 
this  in  San  Francisco,  nor  did  she  know  who  I 
was  until — "  and  he  stopped  suddenly  and  sat 
with  downcast  eyes. 

"I  think  I  have  a  pretty  good  line  on  the 
1  Woman  of  Mystery,'  "  mused  Merle,  as  he 
waited  for  the  boy  to  continue  his  story. 

"I  was  lavishly  entertained  by  society — " 
("A  new  plaything — a  fad,"  mused  Merle,  as 
he  sat  quietly  listening)  "and  my  work  in  the 
church  was  pleasant,  and  the  business  in  the 
store  was  steadily  increasing,  and  life  began  to 
look  brighter,  but  it  lasted  only  a  few  months. 
I  first  noticed  a  change  in  the  people  who  were 
known  as  the  society  people  of  the  city,  for  invi 
tations  became  few,  and  then  at  the  recitals 
there  was  a  coolness  I  did  not  understand.  The 
applause  after  a  number  was  all  one  could 
wish  for,  but  when  I  circulated  amongst  the 
gathering  there  seemed  to  be  a  something,  I 
could  not  tell  what,  but  the  atmosphere  was 
changed,  and  there  was  something  wrong  and 
a  feeling  of  loneliness  came  over  me.  No  one 
came  to  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  when  I 
crossed  the  room  to  speak  with  someone  who 


He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings  101 

had  professed  friendship  I  would  find  them 
preoccupied,  and  it  was  a  back  I  met  instead 
of  a  smiling  face." 

Merle's  eyes  half  closed  as  he  sat  listening 
and  speculating  in  his  mind  as  to  the  cause  of 
the  change.  "I  could  almost  guess,"  he 
smiled  to  himself.  "The  work  of  the  'Woman 
of  Mystery, '  ' '  and  then  he  asked  the  boy  if  the 
woman  Tommasino  had  ever  threatened  him 
and  he  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  then 
was  silent  until  urged  by  the  writer  to  tell  all. 

"Give  me  the  whole  story,"  urged  Merle, 
"and  perhaps  I  can  help  you  with  a  few  sug 
gestions,"  but  the  young  man,  without  looking 
up,  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"No;  I  have  been  a  flat  failure  and  must 
accept  it  all." 

Merle  spoke  quickly  and  with  much  spirit: 
"But  you  have  not  been  a  failure;  you  have 
been  stumbling  over  stumps  and  passing 
through  tangles  of  weeds  where  vipers  breed, 
and  you  have  been  where  a  wonderful  garden 
could  be  made  if  you  would  root  out  the  stumps 
and  dig  up  the  weeds  and  let  in  the  rays  of  sun 
shine  that  would  soon  drive  out  the  vipers,  for 
they  are  cowardly  when  light  is  thrown  on 
them.  Cowardice  is  the  worst  curse  we  have  in 
the  world,  so  do  not  be  a  coward." 


102  Alone 

The  boy  looked  up  and  there  was  an  expres 
sion  of  surprise  on  his  face,  and  he  continued 
to  tell  of  his  experiences  with  these  people. 

"And  some  of  those  same  women  came  to 
the  store  and  invited  me  to  suppers  and  moon 
light  strolls  in  the  parks." 

"But  not  as  dignified  upon  such  occasions," 
interrupted  the  writer,  with  a  smile  of  under 
standing  that  would  come  only  from  a  man  who 
knew  life. 

"No;  they  were  not,"  he  answered,  as  his 
face  crimsoned. 

"A  case  of  'Come  into  my  parlor,  said  the 
spider  to  the  fly,'  "  smiled  Merle,  and  as  he 
spoke  there  was  a  twinkle  in  the  eye.  "Did 
the  little  boy's  feet  get  tangled?"  he  again 
smiled  teasingly,  but  there  was  no  response 
from  the  young  man,  and  with  serious  thoughts 
he  continued  his  story : 

"My  greatest  disappointment  came  when 
the  pastor  of  the  church  where  I  was  playing 
came  to  me  one  Sunday  and  asked  me  to  see 
him  after  the  evening  service.  I  noticed  a 
change  in  his  expression  and  there  was  a 
coldness  in  his  voice.  There  was  no  trace  of 
the  kindness  of  former  days  and  I  did  not 
understand.  I  went  to  his  study  after  the  con 
gregation  had  been  dismissed  and  found  him 


He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings  103 

in  an  indignant  frame  of  mind.  I  did  not 
know  the  cause,  nor  did  he  speak  for  some  little 
while.  After  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the 
floor  for  some  time,  he  turned  to  his  desk  and 
took  a  paper  from  one  of  the  compartments,  and 
without  saying  a  word,  handed  it  to  me  to  read. 
Mr.  Chapman,  it  was  a  type-written  copy  of 
Annie  O'Flynn's  confession.  He  watched  me 
while  I  read  it  and  his  voice  was  harsh  and  cold 
when  he  asked  if  it  were  true.  His  voice,  and 
the  ungodliness  it  carried  with  it,  gave  me  cour 
age  to  meet  the  embarrassing  situation,  and  I 
merely  answered,  'Yes,'  and  then  waited  for 
him  to  continue. 

"  'Do  you  realize,'  he  said,  as  he  turned  and 
faced  me,  'that  my  congregation  is  one  of  the 
most  exclusive  in  San  Francisco?" 

' '  I  answered  his  question,  but  only  with  a  bit 
ter  smile. 

' '  '  How  long  do  you  suppose  I  would  hold  my 
position  if  it  were  found  out  that  I  employed  an 
illegitimate  person  to  furnish  music  in  this 
house  of  God?  They  would  not  tolerate  such 
a  thing  for  a  moment. '  ' ' 

"What  a  splendid  experience,"  thought 
Merle,  as  he  listened.  "Learning  life  and  the 
hypocrisy  of  it  all." 

"Something  gave  me  wonderful  strength," 


104  Alone 

continued  the  boy,  "and  I  rose  quickly  from 
my  chair,  and  said  as  I  passed  him  and 
moved  towards  the  door :  '  I  do  not  believe  God 
knows  you  and  your  congregation  exist,'  and 
I  slammed  the  door  before  he  recovered  from 
his  surprise." 

"Tell  me  again,"  asked  Merle,  "did  this 
woman  Tommasino  ever  threaten  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  quietly  answered,  "and  she  said 
she  knew  where  my  mother  was  and  threatened 
to  divulge  her  hiding  place  and  have  her  again 
committed  to  the  asylum  if  I  did  not  do  her  bid 
ding,  and  the  threat  and  her  peculiar  influence 
held  me  as  her  slave.  She  had  many  acquain 
tances  from  the  four  hundred,  and  that  perhaps 
is  how  my  story  became  known  in  that  set ;  but 
she  must  have  deliberately  sent  the  confession 
to  the  minister,  for  it  was  an  exact  copy,  and 
soon  I  was  not  spoken  of  as  Signer  Bonino,  but 
as  the  illegitimate  son  of  Albert  Bonino,  the 
great  violinist,  and  many  veiled  stories  were 
told,  and  that  seemed  to  draw  more  people  to 
hear  me  play.  My  father  was  looked  upon  as 
a  great  genius.  He  had  many  follies  I  learned, 
and  I  soon  knew  this  class  of  women  liked  him 
for  that." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Merle,  and  as  he  spoke  his 
voice  had  in  it  a  tinge  of  bitterness  and  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  again  spoke,  and  the 


He  Tells  of  His  Wanderings  105 

young  man  sat  quietly  wondering  what  his 
thoughts  were. 

"Mr.  Chapman,"  Arturo  said  as  he  looked 
straight  into  Merle's  eyes,  and  the  writer  saw 
truth  in  those  eyes,  "I  was  a  good  boy  until  I 
reached  San  Francisco." 

' '  I  do  not  doubt  it, ' '  answered  Merle.  *  *  You 
unfortunately  landed  in  a  'bunch'  who  know 
better  how  to  raise  pedigreed  dogs  than  chil 
dren,  and  a  class  of  women  who  hardly  know 
how  to  think  beyond  a  few  orchids  pinned  on  the 
bosom  of  a  gown  as  daring  as  the  law  allows. ' ' 

1  'Yes,  I  noticed  that,  but  I  was  lonesome  and 
weak  and  I  learned  of  so  much  society  tragedy, 
for  many  of  the  women  of  those  exclusive  sets 
would  come  to  the  music  store  to  see  me  and 
arrange  for  clandestine  meetings." 

"And  the  handsome  young  violinist  fell  for 
it,"  said  the  writer,  in  knowing  amusement. 

"Yes,"  the  young  man  answered,  in  almost 
a  whisper,  as  he  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  "and 
I  drifted  down  and  down  until  I  landed  in  '  Rag 
Alley'  Chinatown,  where  'Chinks'  swarmed  like 
weevils  in  a  grain  bin.  I  smoked  opium,  and 
God  only  knows  what  I  did  not  do.  Hungry 
and  friendless  at  last  I  drifted  back  here,  and 
Madame  Tominasino  followed  me,  and  has 
followed  me  ever  since.  I  was  desperate  then 
and  willing  to  return  to  the  O'Flynns  and 


106  Alone 

accept  conditions  as  they  were,  for  I  was  hun 
gry.  My  feet  were  almost  bare  and  my  clothes 
unkept.  I  avoided  the  highways  and  slept  in 
clumps  of  chaparral,  and  I  could  get  food  in 
saloons  by  playing  for  the  loungers." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  with  a  wild  stare 
looked  towards  the  window,  and  Merle  turned 
and  looked  in  the  same  direction,  and  through 
the  fog  that  rolled  and  dipped,  there  came  to 
the  window  the  " Woman  of  Mystery."  Her 
small  eyes,  that  shone  like  those  of  a  snake  in 
the  dark,  looked  past  Merle  to  where  the  young 
man  sat.  The  dampness  had  caused  her  hair 
to  fall  in  disorder  over  her  forehead,  and  as  she 
raised  her  long,  thin  hand  to  push  back  the 
locks  her  fingers  caught  in  the  meshes  of  the 
damp  lace  that  hung  heavy  on  her  hair  and 
pulled  it  over  her  face,  and  she  turned  quickly 
from  the  window,  and  when  the  writer  looked 
to  where  the  boy  had  been  sitting,  he  found 
the  chair  was  empty,  and  he  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  young  fellow  passing  out  of  the 
door  where  he  joined  the  old  woman,  and  soon 
they  disappeared  in  the  mistlike  fog. 

"A  heavy  shock  will  be  necessary  to  break 
the  spell  she  has  thrown  around  him,"  said  the 
writer,  half  aloud,  as  he  again  turned  from  the 
window. 


CHAPTEB  TEN 

A  DANCE  OF  ALL  NATIONS 

Merle  was  the  last  to  leave  the  little  haunt 
where  he  and  the  young  man  sat  talking.  The 
man  in  charge  of  the  attractive  place  was  pro 
prietor  and  waiter,  for  it  was  his  concession 
and  he  did  all  the  work  and  had  just  begun  to 
put  up  the  board  shutters  at  the  windows. 

1  'Stranger,"  he  said  to  Merle,  as  he  noticed 
the  writer  examining  the  attractive  furniture 
made  out  of  eucalyptus  wood,  "it's  pretty, 
isn't  it?  and  notice  how  the  pearl  grey  tones 
blend  with  the  shades  of  the  red-wood  fix 
tures." 

"It  certainly  is  truly  Calif ornian,"  answered 
Merle,  as  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

*  *  I  judge  you  are  a  stranger, ' '  said  the  man, 
as  he  continued  his  work.  "I  would  not  hurry 
to  close,  but  this  is  to  be  a  gala  night  and  I  am 
to  sing  at  the  festival. ' ' 

He  then  told  how  one  night  of  each  year  was 
set  aside  for  a  feast  and  dance  for  all  who  held 
concessions  and  their  friends,  and  how  the  cor 
poration  who  owned  the  pier  gave  the  use  of  the 


108  Alone 

public  dance  hall  and  paid  the  Italian  band  for 
playing. 

"It  surely  is  a  dance  of  all  nations,"  he 
laughed,  "for  everybody  will  be  there.  How 
would  you  like  to  go?"  he  asked.  "I  have  no 
one  to  take,  and  would  like  to  have  you  go  with 
me.  I  could  not  be  with  you  much,  for  I  am  to 
sing.  After  each  dance  there  is  a  song  and 
dance  of  some  one  Nation,  and  then  a  selection 
from  the  band.  You  would  enjoy  it,  I  think, 
and  once  in  awhile  I  could  drop  around  and  chat 
with  you." 

Merle  was  a  Bohemian  in  every  sense  and 
always  glad  to  come  in  touch  with  interesting 
characters,  and  he  eagerly  accepted  the  invita 
tion. 

The  wind  was  growing  louder  and  driving 
the  fog  away  as  they  left  the  little  cafe,  and  it 
wailed  and  increased  as  they  entered  the  dance 
pavilion.  As  they  passed  through  the  door, 
the  writer  took  the  young  Spaniard  by  the  arm 
to  hold  him  back,  and  with  a  smile  playing  over 
his  face,  said:  "Just  look  at  that,"  and  he 
pointed  to  where  Aunt  Mary  sat  in  the  front 
row  of  seats  that  had  been  placed  for  the  use 
of  spectators. 

"Oh,  yes,"  laughed  the  concessionaire,  "she 
never  misses  anything,  and  let  me  tell  you, 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  109 

stranger,"  he  continued  seriously,  as  he  turned 
and  faced  Merle — a  habit  so  characteristic  of 
the  foreigner  of  the  far  south,  for  they  stop  in 
the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  or  street  to  explain 
or  argue  a  matter,  "she  is  wonderfully  edu 
cated  and  quite  a  philosopher  in  her  way.'* 

The  statement  from  the  young  Spaniard 
pleased  the  writer,  for  it  gave  him  a  new  sug 
gestion,  and  he  changed  his  mode  of  procedure 
in  his  attempt  to  draw  her  into  spirited  con 
versation,  and  by  so  doing  learn  more  of  her 
story. 

"Her  heart  is  big,"  continued  the  young 
man,  "and  she  and  'Salvation  Nell'  do  more 
good  work  in  this  section  than  all  the  other 
women  combined." 

"May  I  sit  beside  her?"  asked  Merle,  and 
without  waiting  for  a  reply  went  to  where  the 
old  woman  sat.  The  breakers  pounded  furi 
ously,  and  the  building  creaked  and  swayed  as 
he  walked  over  the  polished  floor. 

"You  are  getting  pretty  gay,  Aunt  Mary," 
he  laughed  as  he  took  his  seat. 

As  she  answered  his  friendly  salutation,  he 
noticed  her  voice  was  changed  and  younger  and 
musical,  and  her  eyes  reflective.  "It's  the 
environments, ' '  he  mused,  as  he  listened  to  her 
spirited  words,  and  noticed  her  lively  imagi- 


110  Alone 

nation  as  she  threw  off  all  restraint  and  took 
on  the  atmosphere  of  the  place,  and  while  they 
sat  talking,  the  hall  gradually  filled  with  merry 
makers  of  all  nationalities,  and  soon  the  band 
played  the  opening  selection,  "La  Traviata." 
Neither  one  spoke  until  the  last  notes  died 
away,  and  then  it  was  Aunt  Mary  who  broke 
the  silence. 

"You  are  fond  of  music,  aren't  you!" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "and  I  never  hear  that 
piece  but  what  I  nestle  back  and  dream,  and  in 
my  dream  I  wander  off  to  Venice,  and  under 
the  moonlit  heavens — with  Verdi  as  com 
panion — drift  noiselessly  on  the  still  waters 
that  glisten  around  the  music  floats  of  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  as  we  pass  beneath  the  Rialto 
we  call  to  old  Shylock,  and  in  my  dream  the 
beautiful  Desdemona  conies  to  her  balcony  and 
throws  me  a  rose  kissed  by  lips  that  glow  like 
the  warm  rays  of  sunset." 

As  he  spoke,  he  watched  the  old  face  wreath 
in  smiles  of  appreciation,  and  the  withered 
hands  smooth  out  the  folds  in  the  much  worn 
gown,  and  then  gracefully  clasp  each  other  and 
rest  in  her  lap. 

"An  aristocrat,"  he  said  to  himself.  "A 
tragedy."  There  was  silence  for  some  mo 
ments. 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  111 

"I  love  to  hear  you  speak,"  she  said  in 
breaking  that  silence,  and  her  smile  seemed  to 
say:  ''Please  do  not  stop." 

She  sat  with  all  the  grace  of  a  stately  woman 
in  a  wonderful  drawing-room.  Merle  had 
never  seen  her  like  that  before,  for  he  had  met 
her  only  on  the  Palisades  and  wandering 
around,  but  now  she  shone  in  a  different  light, 
and  he  forgot  the  poor  attire  and  saw  nothing 
but  the  interesting  face,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  she  were  his  hostess.  Soon  "jazz"  music 
began  and  dancers  of  all  nations  flocked  to  the 
open  space,  and  it  was  a  maze  of  brilliant 
colors,  for  the  Italians  wore  their  finery,  and 
the  Mexicans — with  red-brown  skin — were 
picturesque  in  their  national  costumes,  and  the 
Spaniards  dazzling  in  the  bright  colors  of  the 
South. 

Aunt  Mary  sat  silently  looking  on,  now  and 
then  her  eyes  would  follow  a  dancer,  and  Merle 
suspected  they  were  looking  for  Larry  0  'Flynn, 
and  without  another  thought,  said:  "Did  you 
know  Larry  0  'Flynn  was  married  today  I ' ' 

She  sat  like  one  dazed,  and  when  she  spoke 
again  it  was  slow,  and  she  said:  "I  do  not  un 
derstand — tell  me  about  it,"  and  all  the  time 
she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  control  an  agitation, 
but  was  unsuccessful,  for  her  hands  twitched 


112  Alone 

and  her  eyes  half  closed,  while  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  in  slow  breathing.  He  noticed  the 
change  and  wished  he  had  not  spoken  as  he  did, 
but  now  there  was  no  alternative,  and  he  told 
her  of  the  meeting  between  himself  and  the 
young  man,  but  only  spoke  of  that  part  of  the 
conversation  that  touched  upon  the  subject  of 
his  marriage.  She  listened  attentively  as  he 
spoke,  and  then  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"They  have  been  lovers  for  a  long  time," 
she  said  seriously,  and  without  looking  up, 
"and  perhaps  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  marry 
the  widow,  for  he  had  wronged  the  husband." 

"I  am  getting  something  now,"  thought 
Merle. 

"I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  say  they  were 
lovers,"  and  as  he  spoke  the  old  face  looked  up 
to  his  and  it  was  full  of  resentment,  and  she  lost 
the  mild  sympathy  of  a  few  moments  before, 
and  her  words  bordered  on  bitterness  as  she 
spoke. 

"He  was  too  cowardly  to  attend  the  funeral 
of  the  man  he  had  wronged,  but  was  seen  less 
than  three  hours  after  the  funeral  going  up  an 
alley  and  turning  into  a  path  that  led  to  the 
newly-made  widow's  back  door,"  and  her  voice 
was  cynical  as  she  continued:  "He  hasn't  a 
dollar,  and  is  willing  that  Zita  should  support 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  113 

him  out  of  the  money  her  husband  left.  He  is 
ambitious  to  be  known  as  a  great  musician,  but 
is  on  the  wrong  track.  He  is  lazy,  and  is  will 
ing  women  should  give  him  pin-money  in  return 
for  his  attentions.  The  0  'Flynn  woman  dresses 
him  well,  but  gives  him  no  spending  money,  and 
he  steals  eggs  from  her  hen-coop  and  gives 
them  to  Madame  Tommasino." 

And  as  she  spoke,  the  writer  remembered  the 
first  night  he  saw  him  at  Govante  Pier,  and  he 
remembered  how  he  turned  and  took  some 
thing  from  his  pocket  and  then  put  it  in  the 
Madame 's  handbag,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  as 
she  continued:  "He  brings  them  to  the  pier 
and  quietly  slips  them  into  her  handbag  while 
no  one  is  looking,  or  else  he  takes  them  to  her 
house,  for  that  is  his  loafing  place.  She  was 
afraid  of  losing  him,  so  she  introduced  him  to 
her  friend  Zita,  who  is  much  younger  (than 
she,"  and  she  laughed  a  harsh,  wicked  laugh 
that  surprised  him,  for  he  had  never  seen  her 
give  such  bitter  expression  before.  "I  must 
again  ask  you  to  please  forgive  me — "  ("A 
little  peppery,"  thought  Merle,  with  much  sat 
isfaction.  "She  will  now  probably  come 
through  with  something  she  is  holding  back," 
he  mused,  as  he  sat  quietly  watching  her  face 
that  was  fast  changing  expression.  She  did 


114  Alone 

not  speak  for  some  time,  and  then  looked  up 
appealingly  to  the  writer.  There  were  many 
lines  in  that  face,  but  they  could  not  wholly 
obliterate  traces  of  a  former  beauty.)  she  said, 
"for  speaking  bitterly;  I  do  not  like  to  hurt  a 
person,"  and  tears  once  more  came  to  her  eyes 
as  she  sat  in  silence. 

He  did  forgive  her  for  he  more  often  saw  in 
her  movements  and  acts  of  grace  only  those  a 
high-born  lady  could  possess,  and  her  voice  at 
most  all  times  was  soft  and  sad,  and  seldom  a 
bitter  word  passed  her  lips. 

It  was  hardly  a  place  for  formal  conversa 
tion,  for  free  jests  and  loud  laughter  filled  the 
air  and  at  times  the  cannon-like  blast  of 
waves  dashing  against  the  pier  drowned  all 
other  sounds,  but  Merle  paid  little  attention  to 
the  surroundings,  for  he  was  becoming  more 
and  more  interested  in  his  old  companion. 
"She  goes  just  about  so  far,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "and  is  then  again  the  same  secretive 
little  woman." 

It  was  at  a  time  the  Italian  part  of  the  pro 
gramme  was  being  given,  and  they  sat  silently 
looking  on,  and  the  scene  was  interesting,  for 
some  of  the  costumes  were  patterned  after 
those  of  old  Roman  days,  and  many  wore  orna 
ments  that  looked  as  if  they  might  have  been 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  115 

made  in  Nero's  time,  for  some  of  the  dancers 
were  wealthy  and  of  Italian  aristocracy  and 
might  well  have  valuable  souvenirs,  and  others 
were,  oh !  so  poor ;  but  it  was  a  truly  Bohemian 
affair,  for  good-fellowship  reigned  everywhere, 
and  while  watching  the  interesting  people 
Merle 's  thoughts  went  back  to  Eome,  and  in  his 
dream  he  visited  many  of  the  old  familiar 
places,  but  quickly  came  back  when  the  music 
stopped,  and  he  turned  to  Aunt  Mary  and  said 
in  all  seriousness: 

"Do  you  believe  in  re-incarnation1?" 

She  was  much  surprised  at  the  unusual  ques 
tion,  and  smiled  as  she  replied  by  asking 
another :  * '  Do  you  I ' ' 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  I  believe  in  a  life 
beyond  after  perfection  here.  I  do  not  believe 
God  would  create  us  and  give  us  sight  to  see 
the  beautiful,  and  a  knowledge  how  to  live  and 
love  just  to  afterwards  annihilate  us." 

"No!  No!"  she  said,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
and  in  a  few  lines  of  verse  gave  her  version : 

' '  When  we  meet  in  fields  elysian, 
Freed  from  this  world's  sorrow  and  care; 
We  shall  with  our  spirit  vision, 
See  and  know  each  other  there. 


116  Alone 

"I  do  not  believe  that  death  will  sever 
All  life 's  dearest,  holiest  ties ; 
Nor  that  we  look  farewell  forever, 
When  we  close  our  mortal  eyes. ' ' 

As  he  listened,  his  fingers  closed  over  the 
frail,  old  hand  that  rested  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  for  while  she  spoke  she  had  turned  to 
him  with  wistful  eyes,  and  unconsciously  placed 
her  hand  on  his  chair. 

' '  I  knew  you  had  much  of  the  beautiful  buried 
in  your  heart,"  he  hesitated  a  moment,  "and 
there  also  is  much  sorrow  in  that  same  heart. 
Why  not  confide  in  me  ? " 

In  reply  she  merely  moved  her  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  and  "No"  was  all  she  said, 
and  that  one  word  dismissed  the  subject,  and 
when  she  again  spoke  her  whole  voice  and  atti 
tude  changed  to  one  of  great  interest  in  him, 
and  it  breathed  of  sympathy  instead  of  appeal. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Chapman,  why  your  mind  has 
drifted  to  such  serious  thoughts,"  and  she 
watched  him  closely  as  she  spoke. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  when  he  did 
he  told  her  that  while  watching  the  graceful 
and  perfectly  at  ease  manner  in  which  some  of 
the  dancers  wore  the  old  trappings  of  ancient 
Roman  days,  they  must  have  a  slight  feeling  of 
a  former  life — a  tme  when  they  lived  the  part 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  117 

they  now  were  representing.  "And  then 
again,"  he  said,  as  he  continued  in  the  serious 
strain,  "I  think  that  two  words  you  spoke  in 
regard  to  Larry  O'Flynn  made  me  think  much." 
"What  were  they?"  she  asked,  as  she  studied 
him  in  surprise,  and  her  startled  expression 
seemed  to  say:  "I  wonder  what  he  is  driving 


"Love  and  ambition,"  he  said,  "and  I  might 
include  infatuation,  although  you  did  not 
speak  the  word,"  and  then  he  said  no  more,  but 
waited  for  her  to  take  the  initiative,  for  he 
wished  to  follow  her  thoughts,  and  by  so  doing 
be  more  apt  to  learn  the  true  situation,  but  she 
did  not  speak  and  the  silence  became  embar 
rassing. 

The  waves  pounded  against  the  pier,  and  the 
wind  outside  whistled  in  wild  crescendo,  but  the 
merry-makers  kept  on  dancing.  Merle  shifted 
uncomfortably  in  his  seat  while  Aunt  Mary  sat 
silently  looking  on. 

"She  does  not  cast  a  bit  of  light  on  the  past," 
he  mused,  and  while  he  sat  speculating  she 
turned  to  him  and  said  in  a  quiet  voice  so  that 
others  might  not  hear : 

"Tell  me  of  the  two  words  that  bothered 
you. ' ' 

She    had    broken    the    silence    and    showed 


118  Alone 

interest  in  what  he  had  said,  and  it  pleased  him 
to  find  her  anxious  for  further  conversation. 

"Ambition  and  fascination,"  he  began,  "are 
often  shrouded  by  the  word  love,  and  it  is  one 
of  the  greatest  crimes  committed  against 
society.  Let  me  give  you  two  illustrations  the 
world  has  witnessed  and  which  have  gone  down 
in  history,"  and  he  told  her  of  the  doings  of 
Mark  Antony  and  Napoleon. 

' l  The  case  of  Emperor  Napoleon  is  one  of  the 
best  illustrations  of  what  ambition  has  done 
and  how  far  it  sometimes  leads  men  and  women 
astray,  and  how  it  has  led  them  to  their  ruin. 
It  was  ambition  that  caused  him  to  put  aside 
Josephine,  his  Empress,  the  woman  who  dearly 
loved  him,  and  marry  Maria  Louisa,  the  Aus 
trian,  and  from  the  date  of  that  marriage  the 
fortune  of  war  went  against  the  Corsican  and 
the  tricolor  of  France  was  trodden  in  the  dust 
at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  he — like  a  caged 
eagle — died  in  exile  within  the  narrow  horizon 
of  ocean-bound  Elba,  and  history  tells  us  of 
her  devotion  to  the  last,  for  while  he  was  in 
exile  and  deserted  by  the  Austrian,  and  lay 
dying,  Josephine  wrote  to  him  and  offered  to 
share  his  exile,  and  help  to  comfort  him  in  his 
misfortunes,  and  in  that  letter  she  wrote:  'It 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  119 

remains  with  you  but  to  say  the  word  and  I 
go.'  " 

4 'Yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  as  tears  again 
came  to  her  eyes,  "Josephine  was  of  my  blood 
and  knew  how  to  love." 

" Of  your  blood—?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Chapman";  and  for  the  first  time 
she  spoke  without  reserve.  ' '  I  am  a  Creole  and 
my  family  was  one  of  wealth  and  influence." 

She  quickly  stopped  speaking  and  fear  shone 
in  her  dilated  eyes.  "Come;  this  is  not  a 
place  for  serious  thoughts,"  she  hesitated,  and 
then  with  a  winsome  smile  said:  "Tell  me  of 
the  other  word,  and  then  we  will  dismiss  the 
serious  thoughts,"  and  as  he  listened,  the 
writer  knew  why  he  had  been  drawn  to  this 
old  woman  whom  the  stranger  at  first  glance 
would  think  a  relic  of  a  woman  of  the  street. 

"A  wonderful  old  woman  with  a  beautiful 
mind  shielding  a  great  tragedy,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  told  her  the  story  of  Antony 
and  Cleopatra. 

"Perhaps  the  most  wonderful  exhibition  of 
what  fascination  under  the  cloak  of  love  may 
do  with  man  or  woman,  and  how  far  it  may  con 
trol  their  future  is  given  us  by  the  poet 
William  Haynes  Lydell,  in  his  'Antony  and 


120  Alone 

Cleopatra.'  Antony  left  country,  home  and 
army  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  smile  of  the 
enchantress  Cleopatra,  and  Haynes  tells  it  to 
us  as  he  lay  in  her  arms  dying  and  realized 
what  it  had  done  for  him,  he  says  to  her  in  this 
language : 

'Let  not   Caesar's  servile  minion  mock  the 

lion  thus  laid  low; 
'Twas  no  foeman's  arm  that  fell  him ; 
'Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow. 
He  who  pillowed  on  thy  bosom  turned  away 

from  glory 's  ray ; 
Him   who   drunk  with   thy   caresses   madly 

threw  a  world  away.' 

And  the  poet  attempts  to  dignify  the  act  by  the 
word  love;  it  was  not  love — it  was  licentious 
infatuation,  and  the  romanticist  smiles  at  their 
doings. ' ' 

"Can  a  person  love  one  who  does  not  love 
them?"  she  interrupted. 

"Yes;  and  that  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  trag 
edies,  and  many  through  ambition  and  licen 
tiousness  take  advantage  of  that  condition." 

And  as  he  finished  speaking,  the  songs  and 
laughter  of  the  dancers  ceased  and  all  was 
quiet  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  brilliant 
notes  of  Carmen  came  to  where  they  sat. 

The  color  scheme  changed,  and  it  was  now 
all  Spanish.  The  howling  of  the  winds  and 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  121 

dashing  of  waves  against  the  pier  did  not 
dampen  the  ardor  of  a  young  toreador  who 
came  from  a  side  entrance,  and  Merle  recog 
nized  in  him  the  concessionaire  who  had  bidden 
him  to  the  dance.  He  was  in  the  role  of 
Escamillo,  and  sang  with  wonderful  effect  the 
" Toreador's  Song,"  and  while  the  clear  notes 
were  dying  away,  four  banderilleros — with 
flaming  red  cloaks  over  their  shoulders — 
carried  a  large  rug  to  the  center  of  the  hall,  and 
under  the  rays  of  incandescent  lights,  it  shone 
like  waves  of  fire. 

They  quickly  passed  from  sight,  only  to 
return  again  with  many  brilliant  banderillas, 
which  they  gave  to  dancers  and  to  some  of  those 
in  the  audience,  and  Aunt  Mary  was  one  of  the 
favored  guests  and  gracefully  acknowledged 
the  compliment,  and  while  they  were  passing 
around  the  hall,  a  lovely  signorita,  in  Spanish 
colors  of  the  richest  hue,  came  from  amongst 
the  throng  and  barefooted  stood  on  the  flam 
ing  rug.  A  smile  played  over  her  face  and 
she  was  like  a  slender  flower  as  she  nodded  her 
head  to  different  ones  in  the  audience. 

The  music  changed  and  the  handsome  girl 
gave  a  coquettish  laugh  and  toss  of  the  head, 
and  the  "Andalusia,"  the  most  famous  of 
Spanish  dances  was  on.  Her  gestures  were 


122  Alone 

chaste  and  alluring  in  beauty,  and  as  she  glided 
through  the  mazes  of  the  dance,  her  filmy  gown 
waved,  and  jewel-studded  anklets  sparkled 
like  glimmering  stars.  The  wearing  of  anklets 
was  a  slight  departure  from  the  Spanish,  and 
intensified  the  beauty  of  the  dance  by  giving 
a  suggestion  of  the  Orient,  and  the  soft,  sweet, 
notes  of  the  song  of  the  merry-makers  as  they 
stood  looking  on,  was  like  an  echo  to  the  grace 
ful  rhythm  of  her  body  that  vibrated  with  the 
passionate  intensity  of  her  people. 

An  exquisite  emotion  swept  over  Merle,  and 
Aunt  Mary  did  not  miss  seeing  the  rapturous 
expression  on  his  face  as  he  leaned  forward. 

"The  joys  of  youth,"  she  smiled,  and  quietly 
looked  on  as  the  dancer — in  fascinating 
abandon — swayed  to  the  soft  rhythm  of  the 
music ;  soon  her  arms  raised  in  graceful  curves, 
and  with  the  click  of  the  castanets,  her  body — 
like  a  brilliant  flower  blown  by  the  winds- 
began  to  whirl  swifter  and  swifter,  until  one 
saw  nothing  but  a  column  of  rainbow  hues  that 
floated  into  the  realms  of  poetry.  A  shrill 
click  of  the  castanets,  and  the  body  quickly 
paused  and  the  silken  waves  of  her  drapes  sank 
like  slowly  falling  autumn  leaves.  She  stood  in 
Gypsy-like  silence  while  she  removed  a  wreath 
of  poppies  from  her  raven  locks,  and  with  a 


A  Dance  of  All  Nations  123 

wild  spirit  and  witchery  in  the  eyes,  threw  it  to 
where  Merle  sat,  and  then  with  a  merry  laugh, 
swept  along  with  the  dance.  Her  sinuous 
body,  fragile  and  delicate,  swayed  for  an 
instant,  and  then  as  a  bird  flies  filled  with  the 
intensity  of  life,  she  glided  and  whirled,  and 
like  a  film  passing  over  one's  eyes,  faded  away 
in  the  throng. 

The  throwing  of  the  wreath  was  a  signal  for 
all  to  join  in  the  dance.  Aunt  Mary  knew  the 
meaning  when  the  merry-makers  flocked  to 
where  the  writer  sat,  and  with  a  hearty  teasing 
laugh,  said:  "And  you  are  to  be  'Queen  of 
the  May, '  ' '  and  soon  with  much  pleasantry  on 
the  part  of  the  dancers,  the  wreath  was  placed 
on  Merle's  head,  and  under  much  protest  he 
was  led  to  the  center  of  the  hall,  and  just  at  that 
moment  a  loud  crash  came  and  waves  broke 
over  the  pier,  and  the  storm  was  at  its  wildest. 

The  dancers  clasped  one  another  and  rushed 
through  the  doors  as  the  lights  went  out,  and 
huddled  together  in  sheltered  places.  Merle 
groped  his  way  through  the  dark  to  where  Aunt 
Mary  had  sat,  but  when  he  reached  the  place 
the  chair  was  empty. 


CHAPTEK  ELEVEN 

SWEPT  AWAY  IN  THE  SURF 

The  night  was  black,  and  a  wild  cry  for  help 
was  heard  above  the  din  of  the  roaring  tem 
pest.  Dancers  in  native  costumes  rushed 
wildly  along  the  concrete  walk,  and  at  times 
were  drenched  by  waves  dashing  over  the  prom 
enade,  and  each  moment  the  cry  for  help 
increased.  Life  guards  were  attempting  to 
launch  boats — only  to  be  swept  back  by  a 
breaker. 

A  call  was  sent  in  for  help  from  the  fire 
department,  for  word  had  gone  out  to  the  effect 
that  the  fishermen's  cabins,  with  that  of  Ma 
dame  Tommasino,  had  been  swept  into  the  sea. 
Soon  the  shore  was  lined  with  people  from  all 
walks  in  life.  Merle  was  anxious  about  Aunt 
Mary  and  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  inquire  if  anyone  had 
seen  her.  It  was  not  necessary  to  give  a  de 
scription,  for  everybody  knew  Aunt  Mary,  and 
at  last  he  found  her  sitting  on  one  of  the 
benches  of  the  promenade  and  quietly  looking 
on.  Her  clothing  was  wet  from  the  spray  of 
salt  water  that  had  dashed  over  the  walk. 


Swept  Away  in  the  Surf  125 

"Come,  Aunt  Mary,"  he  said,  with  much 
feeling  and  a  desire  to  protect  her  from  the 
elements,  "let  me  take  you  home." 

"No,"  she  said,  as  she  looked  up  and  asked 
him  to  sit  by  her  side.  "I  want  to  wait  to  see 
that  all  is  well  with  the  poor  souls."  And 
while  they  were  speaking  'Salvation  Nell'  came 
to  where  they  sat  and  in  her  arms  she  held  a 
trombone  that  belonged  to  one  of  the  musicians 
who  had  joined  the  rescuing  party. 

"Mr.  Chapman,  will  you  hold  this?"  she 
said,  as  she  handed  him  the  instrument;  "I  am 
going  to  run  home  and  warm  up  a  pot  of 
spaghetti,  for  the  poor  helpers  will  be 
exhausted." 

"Always  doing  good  and  helping  in  some 
way,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  with  an  affectionate 
smile,  as  she  looked  up  at  Merle  and  then 
turned  her  head  in  the  direction  Nell  had  gone. 

A  wild  cry  from  the  throng  rang  out  when 
the  searchlight  from  a  man-of-war  that  was 
anchored  not  far  out  rested  for  a  moment  on  the 
cabin  of  Madame  Tommasino  that  was  being 
tossed  about  on  the  waves  as  if  it  were  a  toy 
house,  and  then  the  light  slowly  searched  the 
surrounding  waters,  now  and  then  to  rest  on  a 
life  boat  or  part  of  a  fisherman's  cabin,  and 
like  a  mighty  dragon  looking  for  prey  with  the 


126  Alone 

glare  of  fire  from  its  nostrils,  slowly  moved 
back  searching  each  black  wave  until  it  again 
rested  on  Madame  Tommasino's  cabin  that  had 
turned  on  its  side,  and  in  the  glare  of  the  light 
from  the  man-of-war  the  forms  of  Zita  and 
Madame  Tommosino  were  seen  clinging  to  the 
wave-tossed  cabin.  The  night  was  black,  and 
the  forms  of  the  two  women  shone  distinct  and 
near  as  the  searchlight  rested  on  them. 

Another  wild  cry  came  from  the  onlookers  as 
Larry  O'Flynn  crawled  through  a  window,  and 
with  the  arm  of  a  chair  clasped  in  his  hand, 
rushed  to  where  Madame  Tommasino  was  cling 
ing  to  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  awe  spread  over 
the  multitude  as  they  saw  him  raise  the  piece 
of  chair  and  strike  her  over  the  head,  and  in  an 
instant  tear  open  the  bosom  of  her  dress  and 
take  something  she  had  been  carrying  there  and 
put  it  in  his  coat  pocket.  The  struggle  was  des 
perate,  but  soon  the  " Woman  of  Mystery" 
was  forced  away  from  the  shack  that  was  fast 
going  to  pieces,  and  with  a  wild  cry  of  despair 
and  rage  coming  from  her  lips,  her  body  sank 
in  the  turbulent  waves. 

Merle  became  much  excited  as  he  looked  on, 
and  forgetting  that  there  were  listeners,  said 
half  aloud:  uThe  spell  has  been  broken." 

Aunt    Mary,    with   half   closed   eyelids   and 


Swept  Away  in  the  Surf  127 

hands  tightly  clasped,  turned  to  him  and  said: 
"Mr.  Chapman,  I  understand  your  words"; 
Zita's  hands  soon  relaxed  and  her  body  floated 
away  on  a  mighty  wave  that  partly  submerged 
the  cabin;  another  wave  following  close  in  the 
wake  struck  the  frail  house,  and  when  it  again 
appeared  in  sight,  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen 
but  Larry  O'Flynn.  A  flash  of  lightning  was 
followed  by  a  sharp  peal  at  first,  and  then  rum 
bling  thunder,  and  the  sky  became  black ;  another 
breaker  demolished  what  remained  of  the  cabin 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  searchlights  were 
turned  off,  for  all  they  could  find  from  the  man- 
of-war  was  what  seemed  to  be  a  human  being 
holding  on  to  an  upturned  boat  or  a  piece  of 
one  of  the  shacks.  From  the  boat  it  could  not 
be  reached,  so  it  was  left  to  the  rescuers  on 
shore  to  do  the  best  they  could,  and  before  the 
break-o'-day  the  winds  were  at  peace  with  the 
ocean,  and  in  the  calm  of  grey  dawn  the  sun 
came  over  the  lea  as  brightly  as  in  former  days, 
and  there  was  nothing  but  a  few  pieces  of  wreck 
age  quietly  floating  on  the  still  waters  to  suggest 
a  tragedy  that  had  taken  place. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

MOONLIGHT  AND  THE  "AVE  MAKIA" 

Three  months  had  passed  since  Merle  wit 
nessed  the  tragic  storm  at  sea.  He  was 
journeying  east,  and  in  the  warm  twilight  pas 
sionate  and  intense  in  quiet  of  the  glow  that 
spread  over  the  land,  he  left  the  perfume  of 
orange  blossoms  and  fascinating  colors  of 
flowering  shrubs,  and  entered  upon  a  trail  that 
led  across  the  desert  to  a  camp  on  the  shores  of 
the  " Silent  River,"  named  thus  by  the  Indians 
—but  by  the  Spaniards  called  the  Colorado,  for 
its  colors  are  varied  and  intense  and  water 
tumultuous  as  it  plunges  over  rocks  in  the  can 
yons  of  the  mountains  to  sparkle  and  sing  in 
sheltered  nooks  and  then  dance  on  towards  a 
cataract  where  with  a  thundering  swirl  it 
dashes  over  the  water-fall  and  part  in  spray 
lands  in  a  gorge  far  below,  and  after  strug 
gling  through  ravines  it  reaches  the  desert  and 
silently  pushes  through  the  sands  on  its  way  to 
the  sea.  It  is  like  a  mammoth  snake,  for  with 
out  the  sound  of  a  wave  or  a  ripple  of  waters, 
it  winds  its  way  and  seems  morose  and  broken- 
spirited  as  it  silently  drifts,  and  the  desert 


Moonlight  and  the  "Ave  Maria"         129 

Indians  call  it  the  "Silent  River,"  and  some 
times  the  "River  of  Death";  for  in  places  the 
waters  are  blood-red  and  the  change  from  the 
cerulean  blue  of  the  mountains  is  startling,  and 
in  the  night  in  the  bright  moonsweep  is  almost 
unearthly,  as  in  the  weird  mysterious  quiet  it 
silently  flows  on. 

He  wore  a  wide  brim  sombrero  with  a  leather 
band,  on  which  was  carved  a  wreath  of  passion- 
vine.  His  riding  trousers  were  of  the  same 
color  as  that  of  the  hat,  and  he  wore  high  army 
boots.  He  was  walking,  and  behind  him  quietly 
following  was  a  pack-horse  that  carried  his  be 
longings  securely  fastened  on  his  back  by  a  dia 
mond  cinch. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  bandits  of  the  desert 
and  chose  the  cool  of  the  night  to  make  the  jour 
ney;  and  then  again  it  was  out  of  the  ordinary 
and  at  times  he  loved  to  get  away  from  the 
commonplace  things  of  nature  and  dream  un 
usual  dreams.  As  he  walked  along,  the  plain 
tive  call  of  the  night-hawk  blended  with  the  cry 
of  the  desert  wolf,  and  he  often  stopped  to 
listen  to  the  weird  howl  of  a  coyote  as  it  stood 
in  fine  silhouette  on  a  sand-dune  in  the  strange, 
ethereal  light  of  the  moon — that  heavenly  body 
that  seems  to  come  so  near  the  desolate  waste 
whose  mystery  no  humans  know. 


130  A  lone 

The  hours  passed  quickly,  and  midnight 
found  him  slowly  walking  along  a  trail  that 
led  through  low  cactus  and  greasewood  and  on 
towards  a  range  of  sombre  mountains  where 
silent  valleys  are. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  for  in  the  violet  light 
of  the  moon  he  saw  a  column  of  smoke  rising 
heavenward.  "An  Indian  camp,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  moved  back  closer  to  his  horse, 
who  had  commenced  to  sniff  the  air  as  they  do 
when  scenting  danger.  He  stood  intently  lis 
tening  for  a  moment  and  his  horse  was  just  as 
interested,  for  his  ears  pricked  up  and  with 
.inquiring  eyes  peered  in  the  same  direction  his 
master  was  looking,  and  when  Merle's  hand 
took  hold  of  his  bridle  near  the  bit,  he  moved 
his  head  close  as  they  carefully  followed  the 
trail. 

"It  is  strange  not  to  hear  a  dog  bark," 
thought  the  writer,  as  he  silently  walked  along. 

They  had  traveled  about  a  mile  when  he  again 
stopped,  for  he  heard  in  the  distance  what  he 
thought  were  notes  from  a  stringed  instrument. 

"Perhaps  it  is  just  the  witchery  of  the 
night,"  he  mused,  as  he  listened.  "In  the  mys 
tery  of  the  desert  one's  imagination  is  apt  to 
soar  in  such  moonlight  as  this,"  he  smiled, 
"and  the  heart  beat  loud  and  fast,"  and  he 


Moonlight  and  the  "Ave  Maria"         131 

again  moved  on  under  stars  that  seemed  so  near 
that  he  might  reach  up  and  touch  them,  and  the 
whole  desert  seemed  asleep  and  dreaming,  and 
he  thought  of  the  little  town  of  Bethlehem  as 
it  slept  while  the  silent  stars  went  by. 

"Oh,  beautiful!  Most  beautiful!"  he  said 
half  aloud,  as  he  walked  along,  and  the  horse — 
as  if  breathing  the  mysteriousness  of  it  all — 
kept  close  by  his  side,  now  and  then  rubbing  his 
head  on  his  master's  shoulder. 

"I  cannot  be  mistaken,"  and  he  again  stop 
ped  to  listen,  and  like  the  breath  of  a  flower, 
came  the  soft  notes  of  the  "Ave  Maria,"  and 
they  seemed  to  come  from  towards  a  clump  of 
Mesquite  trees  that  grew  a  distance  to  the  right 
of  the  trail. 

He  tied  his  horse  to  a  palm  close  by  and 
stealthily  crossed  the  sands  in  the  direction  of 
the  trees,  and  when  he  reached  the  edge  of  the 
cluster  he  crawled  on  his  hands  and  knees  until 
he  came  close  to  several  silent  forms,  but  he 
could  not  tell  whether  they  were  Indians  or 
white  men,  for  in  that  light  they  were  merely 
outlines ;  but  he  knew  the  music  came  from  the 
heart  of  a  white  man,  and  he  lay  down  on  his 
stomach  and  pulled  himself  along  through  the 
underbrush  until  he  came  to  an  opening,  and 
through  it  he  saw,  where  the  moonbeams  rested 


132  Alone 

on  a  mound  covered  with  wild  heliotrope  and 
yellow  waxen  blossoms  of  the  cactus,  several 
Indians  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  sands,  and 
standing  close  by  a  Yucca  palm  was  a  white 
man  playing  on  a  violin. 

He  drew  back  closer  in  the  shadow,  and  as  he 
listened  to  the  plaintive  notes  he  thought  he 
saw  in  the  face  of  the  bedraggled  person  the 
features  of  Larry  O'Flynn.  He  was  not  sure 
and  dismissed  the  thought.  "No;  how  could 
it  be?"  he  mused.  "I  saw  him  fall  into  the 
sea." 

He  crouched  in  the  shadows  until  he  saw  the 
Indians  one  by  one  get  up  and  silently  walk 
away,  and  the  white  man,  whose  clothing  was 
ragged  and  his  long  hair  unkept,  turn  and  enter 
a  little  hut  that  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  clump 
of  Mesquite  trees,  and  when  all  was  quiet  he 
left  his  hiding  place  and  went  to  the  lonely  hut 
where  a  suggestion  of  light  came  through  a 
piece  of  tarpaulin  that  hung  where  a  window 
was  meant  to  be. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

IN  THE  SHADE  OF  A  YUCCA  PALM 

The  writer  hesitated  as  he  reached  the  little 
hut.  There  was  no  door ;  but  like  at  the  window, 
a  piece  of  tarpaulin  hung  where  a  door  ought 
to  have  been.  He  listened  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  quietly  pulled  aside  the  hanging  just  far 
enough  to  see  through,  and  then  with  a  start 
quietly  drew  back. 

"Yes;  it  is  Larry,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but 
why  should  he  be  here?"  and  then  he  moved 
to  where  he  could  see  through  an  opening  be 
tween  a  piece  of  board  and  some  straw  tied 
together.  He  stood  for  some  time  watching  the 
bent  and  bedraggled  looking  figure  sitting 
alone  beside  a  small  table  where  a  lighted  can 
dle  burned  with  a  doubtful  flicker,  giving  a 
weird  outline  to  the  surroundings. 

"For  days  and  weeks  I  have  thought  of  him 
as  resting  on  the  sands  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea,"  he  mused,  as  he  silently  gazed  upon  the 
quiet  figure  that  was  a  picture  of  despair  as  he 
sat  with  clasped  hands,  his  arms  resting  on  his 
knees,  and  his  eyes  seemed  riveted  on  the  sand 
that  was  the  only  floor  of  the  hut.  On  the  table 


134  Alone 

that  was  made  of  a  few  unplaned  boards  held 
up  by  four  sticks  driven  into  the  sand,  was  an 
unfinished  Indian  basket  and  some  pieces  of 
orange  wood  that  had  pretty  little  scenes 
painted  on. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  he  thought,  as  he  stood 
watching  the  dejected  looking  figure,  but  he 
soon  decided,  and  quietly  raised  the  tarpaulin 
that  hung  over  the  opening  intended  for  a  door 
way,  and  as  he  entered  the  dimly  lighted  place 
the  young  man  looked  up  with  a  start,  and  with 
out  asking  a  question  said  with  trembling 
words :  ' '  I  knew  they  would  find  me. ' ' 

He  had  not  recognized  Merle,  and  only  saw 
in  the  intruder  an  officer  of  the  law,  for  the  fear 
of  being  apprehended  had  been  uppermost  in 
his  mind  ever  since  the  tragedy  at  sea. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  asked  the  writer, 
and  Arturo  at  once  recognized  the  voice  and 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  clasped  Merle  in  his  arms. 

"How  did  you  find  me?"  and  his  voice  was 
appealing  as  he  spoke.  "I'm  afraid;  I  am 
afraid  of  everything — of  every  sound." 

The  writer  thought  it  an  opportune  time  to 
give  him  bitter  food  for  reflection.  He  did  not 
know  of  the  new  sorrow  the  young  man  was 
passing  through. 

"It  will  do  him  no  harm,  and  perhaps  much 


In  the  Shade  of  a  Yucca  Palm  135 

good  to  assume  a  severe  attitude  towards  him," 
and  after  saying  many  things  that  would  seem 
cruel  to  a  weak  character,  he  told  in  a  more 
friendly  manner  how  from  the  trail  he  had 
heard  the  music  and  had  tethered  his  horse  and 
walked  and  crawled  to  the  spot  from  which  the 
music  came. 

"I  did  not  recognize  you  as  you  stood  play 
ing  while  leaning  against  that  Yucca  palm, 
but  I  could  see  that  those  who  sat  around  that 
mound  of  blossoms  were  Indians." 

"My  mother  sleeps  beneath  those  flowers," 
said  the  young  man  with  trembling  lips,  and 
buried  his  face  on  Merle's  shoulder,  and  then 
Merle  regretted  the  harsh  words  he  had  spoken. 

"Sit  down,  Arturo,  and  tell  me  how  you 
found  her,"  he  said,  as  he  led  him  to  the  only 
chair  in  the  hut,  and  then  for  a  seat  for  himself, 
turned  an  empty  box  on  its  side  and  drew  it 
close  to  the  chair  where  the  young  man  sat. 

"Do  they  think  I  murdered  Madame  Tom- 
masino?"  he  asked  appealingly,  as  he  searched 
Merle 's  eyes  for  an  answer. 

'  *  No ;  they  think  you  are  dead, ' '  he  answered, 
"and  those  standing  on  the  shore  that  dreadful 
night  saw  the  wave  break  over  the  frail  build 
ing  and  carry  her  away." 

1 1 1  could  have  murdered  her  that  night, ' '  said 


136  Alone 

the  listener,  "but  the  elements  interfered,"  and 
the  expression  on  his  face  was  hard  as  he  spoke. 
"When  the  storm  was  at  its  wildest,"  he  con 
tinued,  "and  our  cabin  toppled  over  into  the 
sea,  I  was  frightened,  but  was  a  changed  man 
and  had  all^the  savagery  in  my  being  of  a  wild 
beast,  and  I  could  have  murdered  both  Zita 
and  the  old  woman. ' ' 

"Why  Zita?"  interrupted  Merle,  "for  she 
was  your  bride  of  but  a  few  hours."  And  as 
he  listened  to  the  young  man's  bitter  words, 
he  said  to  himself :  ' '  The  crime  of  hypnotism. ' ' 

"Through  the  peculiar  influence  Madame 
Tommasino  held  over  me,  Zita  kept  me  as  her 
slave  while  her  husband  lived,"  he  hesitated 
for  some  moments  before  continuing,  "and  as 
I  see  it  now,"  he  said  bitterly,  "the  old  woman 
was  not  just  sure  of  her  power  to  hold  me,  so 
influenced  me  to  marry  Zita,  for  they  were 
friends  and  she  had  the  same  influence  over  the 
younger  woman.  When  the  storm  was  most 
terrible,  something  seemed  to  snap  within  me. 
Mr.  Chapman,  when  the  storm  broke  over  us 
Madame  Tommasino  hurriedly  placed  some 
papers  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress." 

Merle  remembered  having  seen  him  tear  open 
the  bosom  of  her  dress  when  the  cabin  rolled 
and  pitched  on  the  tumultuous  waves,  but  did 


In  the  Shade  of  a  Yucca  Palm  137 

not  say  anything  for  he  wanted  to  hear  the 
young  fellow's  uninterrupted  story. 

"And  when  I  tore  open  the  bosom  of  that 
same  dress,  this  is  what  I  found,"  and  as  he 
finished  speaking  he  took  from  his  pocket  some 
wrinkled  and  discolored  papers. 

"The  terrific  fright  broke  the  spell,"  thought 
Merle,  as  the  young  man  smoothed  out  the 
papers  and  moved  the  candle  to  a  place  where 
it  gave  a  stronger  light. 

"If  I  could  rouse  him  to  the  true  sense  of 
manhood,"  he  mused,  as  he  sat  waiting  for 
Arturo  to  speak.  "He  is  freed  from  the  hyp 
notic  influence,  and  it  will  be  well  to  point  out 
to  him  the  enormity  of  his  crimes,"  and  then 
he  asked  in  a  serious  voice :  "  Do  you  know  what 
a  person  is  called  who  allows  women  to  support 
him!"  and  as  he  finished  speaking  he  sat  sil 
ently  watching  the  shamed  face  before  him. 

Arturo  did  not  reply.  "He  feels  keenly," 
mused  Merle,  "and  there  is  splendid  material 
in  him  for  a  good  man, ' '  and  he  was  again  half 
sorry  he  had  spoken  so  harshly.  "But  it  will 
do  him  good,"  he  thought,  as  he  changed  the 
subject  to  the  mound  of  desert  flowers  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Yucca  palm. 

"No;  read  this  first,"  and  as  he  spoke  his 
eyes  again  rested  on  the  floor. 


138  Alone 

When  Merle  took  up  the  stained  paper  he 
saw  it  was  the  stolen  confession  of  Annie 
O'Flynn,  and  he  was  glad  it  had  fallen  into 
the  young  man's  hands. 

"Arturo,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  all  sym 
pathy  as  he  placed  his  hands  on  his  shoulder, 
"tell  me  the  story  of  your  wanderings  from 
the  night  of  the  tragedy  at  sea  up  to  the  pres 
ent  time;  also  tell  me  how  you  escaped  in  that 
dreadful  sea.  I  am  your  friend,  and  with  hon 
esty  to  back  me,  I  can  start  you  on  the  right 
path." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  moments  before 
Arturo  spoke. 

"One  day  I  sat  in  the  protecting  shadow  of 
a  large  boulder  and  looked  down  into  the  Val 
ley  of  San  Fernando  where  in  the  distance  I 
could  see  the  semi-ruins  of  the  red  tiled  mission, 
and  I  wanted—  He  hesitated  again,  and  with 
his  much  worn  shoe  scraped  the  sand  that  was 
the  floor  of  the  hut. 

"You  wanted  what!" 

"I  wanted  to  go  there  for  food  and  protec 
tion,"  and  again  his  eyes  rested  on  the  sands 
at  his  feet. 

"Why  did  you  not  go!" 

His  lips  trembled  as  he  answered  Merle's 
question:  "No;  there  is  no  future  for  me." 


In  the  Shade  of  a  Yucca  Palm  139 

With  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  he  brushed  away 
the  tears  that  were  fast  dimming  the  tired  eyes. 
"The  world  has  no  room  for  such  as  me.  I 
must  wander  alone  and  perhaps  starve  here  on 
the  desert." 

He  was  not  strong  physically,  and  as  Merle 
watched  him,  he  mused  while  listening:  "If  he 
is  strong  enough  in  mind  and  body  to  bear  up 
for  a  few  months ;  but  if  not,  the  sooner  he  lies 
down  to  his  long  sleep  the  better,"  and  as  he 
listened  to  the  young  man  he  thought  how  much 
cleaner  the  boy's  heart  was  than  those  who 
turned  their  backs  on  him. 

"Mr.  Chapman,  there  is  a  veil  that  separates 
me  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Society  will  not 
raise  it.  The  women  used  to  come  alone  and 
raise  it  for  their  own  pleasure  and  then  drop 
it  again  and  pass  back  to  their  world." 

"You  feel  that  you  have  been  unfairly  dealt 
with,"  said  Merle,  "and  so  do  I.  You  are 
young  and  have  passed  through  many  dark 
valleys.  Now  it  rests  with  you  to  go  into  the 
sunlight.  Do  not  try  to  enter  the  life  that  has 
been  denied  you  for  at  times  it  will  be  a  bitter 
disappointment  and  that  will  injure  you  and 
perhaps  have  a  tendency  to  embitter  you, — rise 
above  it  all  and  prepare  yourself  for  that 
brotherhood  in  the  life  beyond  death, — that  is 


140  Alone 

denied  you  in  life  on  this  earth. ' '  While  speak 
ing  he  noticed  a  change  in  Arturo's  expression 
and  he  was  pleased,  and  while  the  boy  was  in 
that  frame  of  mind  repeated  a  few  verses,  but 
prefaced  them  with  a  few  words : — ' '  Some  day 
we  shall  know  what  lies  beyond  death's  sleep, 
for  we  all  must  lie  down  in  that  sleep.  Every 
thing  we  love  dies."  And  Arturo  sat  quietly 
listening  when  he  told  him  Death  was  only  a 
common  word,  an  expression  meaning  the  pass 
ing  of  the  soul. 

' '  Death  is  merely 
A  short  parting  with  friends; 
It's  like  the  soaring  of  a  lark 
To  realms  without  end. 

"It  is  only  a  beautiful  transition, 
This  parting  from  dear  old  friends, 
Like  notes  of  a  great  musician 
Rising  to  worlds  without  end. 

"Like  leaving  a  cold  winter  morning, 
And  a  pall  of  purple  gray, 
To  the  bright  sunlight  soaring, — 
To  lands  that  lie  far  away. 

' '  To  meet  and  know  our  invisible  helpers, 
Who  are  with  us  day  by  day  • 
Guiding  us  to  that  promised  shelter, — 
A  land  that  lies  far  away. 


In  the  Shade  of  a  Yucca  Palm  141 

' '  Death — What  seems  so  is  transition, — 
This  life  of  mortal  breath, 
Is  but  a  suggestion  of  the  life  elysian, 
Those  portals  we  call  Death. 

"This  world  is  but  a  stopping  place 
On  the  road  to  Elysium ; 
Here  we  meet  wanderers  face  to  face, 
All  hoping  for  life  elysian. 

' '  Here  we  leave  the  train  for  a  short  time ; 
Just  long  enough  to  make  observations, — 
And  gladly  when  the  bell  chimes, 
We  board  again  and  off  for  Elysium. 

' '  Our  eyes  may  rest  upon  the  setting  sun, 
Or  turn  towards  the  rising  moon, — 
But  we  are  happy  to  think  our  work  is  done, 
And  we're  off  to  the  bright  light  of  morn." 

He  watched  Arturo  as  he  finished  the  verses 
and  was  again  pleased. 

1  'I  have  always  longed  for  a  home,"  said  the 
boy.  "When  I  was  wandering  I  often  watched 
birds  teach  their  young  how  to  fly  and  how  to 
look  for  food,  and  I  wished  I  had  had  a  place 
in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THEY  TALKED  THROUGH  THE  LONG 
HOURS  OF  NIGHT 

In  the  dim  candle-light  he  told  how  he  had 
hurried  to  Cahuenga  Pass  where  he  turned 
south  into  the  hills. 

"A  wave  broke  over  the  cabin  and  it  went 
into  pieces,"  he  said,  in  launching  into  the  story 
of  his  escape  and  subsequent  wanderings.  "I 
was  thrown  into  the  water  near  an  upturned 
fisherman's  boat,  and  as  I  clung  to  it,  I  drifted 
far  south  in  the  tumult  of  waves,  and  at  last  a 
heavy  breaker  threw  the  boat  on  the  sands.  It 
was  in  the  darkness  preceding  dawn,  and  I 
found  myself  alone  on  the  beach  about  a  mile 
below  Govante.  I  hurried  to  the  0  'Flynn  home, 
keeping  as  far  away  from  habitation  as  I  could, 
and  when  I  reached  the  house  the  heavens  were 
just  turning  grey.  I  entered  through  an  open 
window  in  the  rear  of  the  house  and  quietly 
made  my  way  to  the  room  I  had  occupied  for 
some  time  and  got  my  violin  and  a  change  of 
clothing,  and  from  there  made  direct  for  the 
hills,  and  ever  since  my  food  has  been  of  ber- 


Talked  Through  the  Night  143 

ries  and  roots  until  I  reached  here,  and  when 
the  Indians  learned  of  my  mother's  sickness, 
they  brought  food  for  both  of  us,  but  she  was 
too  low  to  eat." 

As  Merle  sat  listening,  he  thought  of  how  like 
many  wild  animals  do,  he  had  sought  the  desert 
in  fear  of  human  beings. 

"I  was  hungry  and  thirsty  and  wandering 
around  in  the  hot  sands  waiting  for  death  when 
I  came  across  this  little  hut,  and  when  I  pushed 
aside  the  tarpaulin,  I  saw  lying  on  this  place 
called  a  bed  a  frail  little  woman. ' ' 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  wept 
like  a  child  for  a  few  moments. 

"She  was  awake,  but  delirious,"  he  con 
tinued,  "and  as  I  went  near  to  where  she  lay 
her  frail  arms  reached  out  to  me  and  she  said 
in  a  feeble  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper:  'Al 
bert,  I  knew  you  would  come. '  I  drew  back  when 
she  spoke  that  name.  Mr.  Chapman,  you  re 
member  Annie  O'Flynn  in  her  confession  said 
Albert  was  my  father's  name.  She  motioned 
to  me  to  come  near  to  her,  and  she  placed  one 
of  her  hands  in  mine,  and  with  the  other  pointed 
about  the  hut.  'See,'  she  said,  'my  beautiful 
home,'  and  then  she  looked  up  at  me  and 
smiled,  and  oh!  what  an  angelic  face.  She  put 
her  hand  on  my  head  and  said :  'Albert;  I  knew 


144  Alone 

you  would  come  and  share  my  pretty  home 
with  me,'  and  then  she  lay  back  exhausted." 

"Many  times,"  said  Merle,  "visions  that 
precede  death  from  hunger  and  thirst  are  full 
of  strange  phantasies,  and  she  no  doubt  thought 
your  father  had  come  to  her  and  that  she  was 
living  in  a  palace. ' ' 

' '  I  looked  around  for  water  but  I  did  not  find 
any.  I  then  hurried  out  to  the  little  clump  of 
Mesquite  trees  that  grew  near  the  cabin  and 
found  mistletoe  clinging  to  some  of  them,  and 
I  gave  her  water  from  the  berries,  for  I  remem 
bered  how  it  had  quenched  my  thirst  when  I 
was  in  the  hills,"  and  he  told  how  often  he  had 
climbed  almost  to  the  top  of  a  tree  where  he 
saw  white  berries  hanging  and  some  half  hid 
den  by  the  vivid  green  leaves.  "You  know  the 
mistletoe  is  a  parasite,  and  one  is  apt  to  find 
it  growing  on  any  tree."  He  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  before  continuing.  "The  water  from  the 
berries  revived  her  and  she  lay  staring  at  me 
with  wild  eyes.  'Who  are  you?'  she  asked, 
and  when  I  told  her  I  was  known  by  some  as 
Arturo  Bonino,  the  son  of  Albert  Bonino,  the 
scene  was  most  pitiful,  and  when  she  became 
calm  she  told  how  kind  the  Indians  had  been 
to  her  and  where  their  camp  was,  and  then 
again  lapsed  into  unconsciousness. 


Talked  Through  the  Night  145 

1 1 1  hurried  to  the  Indian  camp  that  lies  about 
a  mile  away,  and  when  I  told  my  story  those 
big-hearted  red  people  returned  with  me  and 
stayed  to  the  last.  They  brought  food  and 
water,  but  it  was  too  late  to  save  my  mother, 
and  it  was  her  request  that  we  lay  her  body 
away  in  the  sands  in  the  shade  of  that  Yucca 
palm  that  stands  alone  a  few  feet  away,  and 
she  asked  me  to  play  the  'Ave  Maria'  when  her 
body  was  laid  in  the  grave,  and  during  the 
hours  preceding  death  she  often  asked  me  to 
play  the  'Rosary,'  and  other  pieces  she  said 
my  father  used  to  play." 

*  *  Did  she  tell  you  anything  of  her  life  before 
she  met  your  father,  or  her  name!" 

"No,  Mr.  Chapman;  it  is  all  a  blank,"  and 
as  the  writer  listened  he  thought  it  was  just  as 
well. 

"For  as  the  world  goes  now,"  he  mused  as 
he  listened,  "her  relatives  would  turn  their 
backs  on  him." 

"She  gave  me  this  photograph,  and  as  she 
handed  it  to  me,  she  said:  'It  is  a  picture  of 
your  father.  I  hid  it  in  the  hem  of  my  dress  be 
fore  they  took  me  away,'  and  she  also  gave 
me  this  necktie,  saying  it  belonged  to  my  father, 
and  this  little  baby's  stocking,  she  said  was 
one  I  had  worn.  These  three  things  she  had 


146  Alone 

folded  carefully  and  sewed  them  in  the  hem 
of  her  dress,  and  it  was  pitiful  to  see  her  frail 
hands  as  she  took  out  the  stitches  that  held  the 
hem." 

''Let  me  see  the  dress,"  suggested  Merle, 
"we  may  find  some  clue  in  that." 

"We  laid  her  away  in  that  dress,"  answered 
Arturo,  slowly,  and  in  almost  an  undertone, 
"for  it  was  all  she  had  and  it  was  her  request, 
and  during  the  delirium  that  preceded  death 
she  spoke  of  it  as  her  robe,  and  she  held  my 
hand  right  up  to  the  last  and  called  me  Albert. 
The  good  Indians  carried  boards  on  their 
shoulders  from  a  village  on  the  edge  of  the 
desert  and  made  a  casket  for  her,  and  when 
that  was  finished  they  gathered  heliotrope  and 
cactus  blossoms  to  lay  on  her  grave,  for  she 
had  asked  to  be  buried  in  the  shade  of  that 
Yucca  palm,  and  I  know  the  Indians  will  care 
for  her  grave.  They  told  me  how  they  loved 
her  and  how  she  made  Coahuilla  baskets  for  a 
living.  'We  sold  them  for  her/  said  one,  'and 
bought  food  for  her,  for  she  never  went  off  the 
desert, '  and  they  told  me  how  she  insisted  upon 
their  taking  half  of  the  proceeds  for  helping 
her." 

When  Arturo  finished  speaking,  Merle  took 
up  the  photograph,  and  with  a  start  and  almost 


Talked  Through  the  Night  147 

dazed,  his  thoughts  quickly  traveled  to  the  little 
room  at  the  old  mission  and  the  half-finished 
picture  on  the  easel.  He  laid  the  bit  of  cardboard 
on  the  little  stocking  Arturo  had  laid  before 
him,  and  then  took  up  the  necktie. 

"Perhaps  this  may  give  us  a  clue  of  some 
sort,"  he  mused,  and  as  he  turned  it  over  he 
found  pinned  to  the  back  a  small  piece  of  paper, 
and  on  it  was  printed  the  same  verse  that  was 
written  on  the  easel.  Merle  concealed  his  sur 
prise  and  folded  the  tie  and  handed  it  back  to 
Arturo,  who  did  not  know  Merle  had  noticed 
the  lines,  and  as  they  sat  in  silence  a  mocking 
bird  sang  in  the  lone  palm  that  grew  close  by 
the  hut,  for  this  bird  loves  the  moon  and  stars, 
and  often  sings  during  the  night,  and  wherever 
there  is  an  oasis  in  the  desert  the  mocking  bird 
is  sure  to  be  found,  for  he  seems  to  love  soli 
tude  and  he  will  take  his  mate  far  into  the 
desert  and  there  alone  raise  his  little  family, 
and  the  choice  of  his  home  may  be  a  lone  palm 
far  removed  from  any  other  verdure  and  far 
away  from  the  taint  of  man. 

The  grey  of  early  morning  was  blending  with 
the  golden  glow  of  the  rising  sun,  and  the  song 
ster  seemed  to  be  welcoming  the  birth  of  day, 
and  as  he  sang  the  writer  repeated  half  aloud 
the  lines  he  had  read  at  the  old  Mission: 


148  Alone 

' '  In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree ; 
And  a  bird  in  solitude  singing, 
Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. " 

Arturo  was  amazed  as  he  listened.  "Why, 
Mr.  Chapman;  those  are  the  lines  pinned  to 
this  tie." 

"I  have  read  them  before,"  was  all  Merle 
said,  for  he  wished  to  keep  from  the  young 
man  all  knowledge  of  his  visit  to  the  Mission, 
for  he  had  planned  in  his  mind  what  he  was 
going  to  ask  Arturo  to  do,  and  that  was  to  go 
and  see  Father  Diaz. 

"I  believe  if  he  goes  there  and  learns  of  the 
life  and  kindness  of  the  old  padre,"  he  thought, 
"it  will  have  a  wonderful  influence  for  good  if 
he  has  the  right  stuff  in  him,  for  sorrow  is  a 
great  builder  of  character." 

And  after  Arturo  had  promised  to  go,  Merle 
asked  him  to  meditate  much  on  the  journey. 
"And  remember,"  he  said,  "that  God  made 
us  all  of  one  blood  and  we  should  walk  hand  in 
hand  through  this  life, ' '  and  it  was  the  writer 's 
desire  to  have  him  surrounded  with  as  little 
as  possible  of  that  which  would  remind  him  of 
the  past,  and  he  felt  what  the  young  man  would 
learn  at  the  Mission  and  of  Father  Diaz  would 
be  a  sorrow  that  would  help  him  in  after  life. 


Talked  Through  the  Night  149 

"  There  seems  to  be  no  way  by  which  you 
can  learn  anything  of  your  parentage  except 
ing  that  part  contained  in  Annie  O'Flynn's 
confession,  and  I  am  now  going  to  ask  you  to 
do  something  that  may  at  first  seem  strange  to 
you, ' '  and  he  told  him  he  would  like  to  have  him 
destroy  both  the  original  and  copy  of  that  con 
fession. 

"But  why  do  that?"  asked  the  young  man, 
in  surprise. 

"I  want  this  night  to  be  the  climax  of  your 
life,"  answered  Merle,  "and  as  the  sun  comes 
over  yonder  mountains  I  want  it  to  shine  on  a 
different  man — a  new  man.  There  are  no  things 
we  cannot  overcome,  and  I  want  to  see  you 
start  this  day  on  the  right  path,  and  as  you 
journey  through  the  remainder  of  this  life,  I 
want  you  to  build  arbors  of  beautiful  thoughts 
— make  each  morning  a  new  beginning.  Keep 
the  wonderful  word  HOPE  before  you  always 
for  it  is  the  life-blood  of  the  soul.  Lay  away 
the  past — it  is  over  now,  and  let  each  new  hour 
be  of  your  own  making.  You  have  a  friend  in 
me ;  be  just  to  that  friendship,  and  walk  in  the 
path  the  friend  points  out  to  you  and  begin 
the  new  life  now.  Yesterday's  wounds  will 
heal  themselves,  and  the  scars  will  soon  disap 
pear.  Your  mother  has  passed  to  another  life. 


150  Alone 

Do  not  think  death  means  the  ending  of  all 
things — it  is  only  the  beginning  of  life." 

Arturo  had  sat  with  bowed  head  while  Merle 
was  speaking,  but  as  he  heard  these  last  words 
he  looked  up  quickly. 

"Do  you  believe  what  you  have  just  said?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  writer,  and  then  sat 
silently  watching  the  boy  whose  brain  was  in  a 
turmoil.  "The  alpha  of  your  life  was  sad  and 
you  intensified  that  sadness  by  the  crimes  of 
your  younger  days.  Let  NOW  be  the  beginning 
of  a  happy  life,  and  the  omega  beautiful.  Often 
your  feet  will  grow  weary,  for  sometimes  the 
path  will  seem  hard  and  tangled  with  weeds, 
and  when  the  way  seems  almost  too  dreary 
bear  your  cross  with  a  smile,  for  a  smile  en 
courages  a  weak  soul  and  kind  words  are  like 
manna  from  heaven." 

While  speaking  the  last  few  words,  Merle 
noticed  Arturo  carefully  fold  the  little  stocking 
and  necktie  around  the  photograph  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket. 

' '  Shall  we  burn  these  papers  ? ' '  asked  Merle, 
and  the  answer  "Yes"  came  quick,  and  soon 
Annie  O'Flynn's  confession  was  in  ashes,  and 
Merle  knew  it  was  an  answer  to  his  appeal. 

"Now  you  are  born  again,"  he  said  to  the 
young  man  who  stood  silently  looking  on,  and 


Talked  Through  the  Night  151 

the  writer  was  pleased  with  what  he  saw  writ 
ten  on  the  sad  young  face,  and  after  he  told 
Arturo  his  plans  and  where  he  wanted  him  to 
go,  and  whom  he  wanted  him  to  see  and  talk 
with,  he  said — with  much  affection  and  sympa 
thy: 

"My  horse  is  tethered  not  far  away.  Let  us 
go  to  where  he  is  tied.  I  will  give  you  enough 
food  to  last  you  on  your  journey.  When  you 
have  that  wrapped  up  we  will  go  to  the  Indian 
camp,  for  you  will  want  to  see  them  before  leav 
ing;  and,  Arturo,  I  would  suggest  that  you  give 
the  hut  to  them,  for  they  can  use  some  of  the 
things  in  their  camp." 

Soon  they  were  off  in  the  cool  of  the  morn 
ing,  and  after  a  short  stop  at  the  Indian  camp, 
Merle  showed  him  to  the  trail  that  would  lead 
him  to  the  old  Mission,  and  after  farewells  were 
exchanged  the  writer  watched  Arturo  as  he 
followed  the  trail  that  led  far  beyond  the  great- 
sand  dunes. 

To  the  right  and  to  the  left  stretched  the 
waves  of  hot  sand,  and  as  he  stood  there  he 
thought  how  few  there  were  in  the  world  who 
knew  of  the  odd  beauty  and  life  of  a  desert. 

Arturo 's  step  was  lithe  for  he  was  in  a  men 
tal  condition  new  to  him  and  he  saw  a  light 
ahead — a  light  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 


152  Alone 

as  he  followed  the  white  path  he  remembered 
Merle's  words:  "The  sun  will  be  your  friend 
by  day  and  the  stars  will  guide  you  through  the 
night";  and  he  hurried  on  in  the  direction  the 
trail  led,  and  through  field-glasses  Merle  saw 
him  stop  now  and  then  to  gather  wild  flowers 
that  grew  beside  his  path  and  to  wave  his  hand 
to  where  he  stood  until  at  last  the  mystic  haze 
left  nothing  but  a  phantom  outline  moving 
quickly  along. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

MERLE  WRITES  TO  FATHER  DIAZ 

Nature  seemed  drowsy  in  the  stillness  of  the 
desert  heat  of  middle  day.  Merle  came  to  the 
door  of  a  hut  that  stood  near  a  spring  of  clear, 
cool  water  that  was  shaded  by  the  fresh  green 
verdure  of  the  beautiful  oasis,  and  he  was  list 
less  as  he  stood  looking  out  to  where  the  sands 
and  sky  blend  in  mystery. 

From  underneath  a  motionless,  dreaming 
palm  tree  a  pink-throated  lizard  flitted  into  the 
sunshine,  and  for  an  instant  stood  with  raised 
head  and  eyes  that  sparkled  like  miniature 
jewels  and  then  as  quick  as  a  flash  darted  over 
the  hot  sands  where  the  horn-toad  revels,  and 
on  to  the  shade  of  a  cactus. 

"I  suppose  he  is  well  on  his  way,"  he  said 
half  aloud,  as  he  thought  of  the  tragic  life  of 
Arturo. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  and  then  slowly 
walked  in  the  direction  he  had  seen  several 
road-runners  go.  He  took  his  field-glasses  from 
a  case  that  hung  by  his  side  and  scanned  the 
barren  stretch. 

"They  are  hunting  for  rattlers,"  he  smiled, 


154  Alone 

as  he  searched  with  the  aid  of  his  glass  the 
waves  of  drifted  sands  until  at  last  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  birds  as  they  circled  around  a 
snake  lying  fast  asleep  in  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  rays.  He  cautiously  walked  a  little  closer 
and  stood  watching  them  as  they  gathered  bits 
of  prickly  cactus  and  laid  them  in  a  circle 
around  the  snake,  and  after  the  wall  was  com 
plete  they  roused  the  sleeping  reptile,  and  with 
loud  calls  and  spectacular  gestures,  watched 
him  try  and  cross  the  cactus  barrier  and  then 
turn  back  in  fear  of  the  prickers,  and  at  last  in 
desperation  commit  suicide  by  poisoning  him 
self  with  his  own  virus. 

And  as  he  stood  with  the  glasses  to  his  eyes 
he  saw  the  unusual  birds  take  to  the  trail  again, 
and  with  raised  top-knots  and  open  beak, 
swiftly  run  along  using  their  tails  as  a  rudder. 
Suddenly  one  darted  sideways  and  chased  a 
lizard  over  and  under  boulders,  and  at  last 
emerged  with  it  in  his  beak  and  joined  the 
others  as  they  ran  along  the  trail  that  led  over 
the  sands,  and  when  their  shadows  were  lost 
in  the  mirage  he  went  to  where  the  dead  snake 
lay.  The  color  harmony  of  the  snake  interested 
him,  for  the  blending  of  soft  grey,  olive,  brown 
and  salmon  reds  glistened  like  jewels  in  the 
sunlight,  and  he  stood  for  some  moments  as  if 


Merle  Writes  to  Father  Diaz  155 

charmed.  "  There  is  no  blending  of  color  as 
beautiful  as  those  of  the  desert  rattlesnake," 
he  mused,  and  then  turned  and  went  back  to  the 
hut,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  sheltering  palms 
wrote  a  letter  to  Father  Diaz,  and  in  that  letter 
to  the  old  padre  he  gave  a  complete  outline  of 
the  young  man's  life  and  told  how,  after  think 
ing  him  dead,  he  had  found  him  alone  at  the 
graveside  of  his  mother. 

"He  has  been  most  everything  that  is  crimi 
nal,"  he  wrote,  "and  feels  that  the  world  has 
denied  him  the  privilege  of  being  good.  He  did 
not  choose  the  manner  in  which  he  came  into  the 
world." 

And  he  told  the  padre  how  he  had  directed 
the  young  man  to  the  path  that  would  lead  him 
to  the  Mission,  and  how  he  had  asked  him  to 
make  the  whole  journey  on  foot. 

"And  I  asked  him  to  meditate  much  on  the 
journey,  and  I  feel  he  will.  His  name  is  Ar- 
turo,  and  he  is  the  illegitimate  son  of  Albert 
Bonino,  whom  society  raved  over,  but  turned 
their  backs  on  his  son  who  has  much  greater 
talent." 

He  did  not  tell  Father  Diaz  whom  Arturo's 
mother  was,  for  he  knew  the  padre  would  see 
in  him  a  likeness  to  the  unfinished  portrait  on 
the  easel  and  understand  all. 


156  Alone 

1  'Both  good  and  bad  instincts  are  strong," 
he  wrote,  "but  the  world  has  developed  the 
latter,  while  the  good  in  him  lies  dormant.  He 
has  all  the  love  and  affection  of  his  mother's 
blood,  but  the  cowardice  and  criminal  instinct 
of  his  father  has  been  developed  to  overshadow 
everything  else.  Life  is  wonderful  if  we  choose 
the  right  path.  He  was  given  a  difficult  role 
and  has  played  some  of  it  well,  and  in  that 
part  he  has  learned  life  in  its  fullest,  and  has 
laid  a  foundation  for  a  wonderful  career  of 
good  if  only  we  can  help.  Cannot  we  develop 
that  which  his  mother  gave  to  him,  and  in  turn 
give  to  the  world  something  good?  I  am  turn 
ing  my  face  to  the  East,  but  shall  not  say  good 
bye,  just  au  revoir,  for  I  expect  to  return  some 
day.  I  am  sending  Arturo  to  you  to  teach, 
for  some  do  not  understand  just  how  to  bear 
the  cross." 

He  finished  the  letter  and  gave  it  to  an  Indian 
runner  to  mail  at  the  nearest  post  so  it  would 
reach  the  Mission  in  advance  of  Arturo. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

A  FEW  YEARS  LATER 

The  afternoon  was  dreamy  on  the  Palisades 
— quiet  and  restful.  A  stranger  slowly  walked 
along  one  of  the  paths  that  led  close  to  the 
rustic  fence  that  winds  its  way  along  the  edge 
of  the  picturesque  crags  that  look  towards  the 
sea.  His  hair  was  silvery  white,  so  different 
from  the  grey  of  a  few  years  before  when — at 
the  sunset  hour — he  idly  strolled  towards  an 
incline  that  led  to  the  ocean  promenade.  The 
expression  of  his  face  had  changed  to  that  of  a 
mature  man  of  the  world,  and  he  seemed  not 
only  interested  in  the  people  but  in  the  birds 
and  flowers,  for  he  stopped  now  and  then  to 
study  an  odd  bloom  or  listen  to  the  notes  of  a 
song-bird,  and  to  examine  century  plants  grow 
ing  on  the  crags  and  he  stopped  beside  one  that 
was  about  to  bloom,  and  where  an  artist  sat 
at  his  easel,  and  others  were  dreaming  through 
the  twilight. 

He  was  walking  towards  that  same  incline, 
and  many  of  his  thoughts  were  the  same  as 
they  were  when  some  years  before  he  stopped 
in  the  evening's  crimson  glow  to  listen  to  birds 
sing  and  twitter,  and  watch  the  flowers  fold 


158  Alone 

their  petals  as  the  sun  went  down.  He  walked 
slowly,  now  and  then  stopping  to  watch  the  dif 
ferent  types  of  people,  some  walking  quietly 
along  the  bloom  bordered  paths,  while  others 
sat  alone  on  rustic  benches  overlooking  the  sea 
and  far  out  to  where  the  sky  and  waters  blend, 
and  where  at  twilight  the  mystic  hues  one  sees 
in  the  ocean  waves  seem  as  if  it  might  be  the 
border  land  of  the  unexplained  beyond.  Some 
sat  in  their  black  robes  of  sorrow;  others — 
eyes  were  veiled  with  tears,  and  some  sat  alone 
in  the  dreadful  sense  of  desolation. 

Merle  stood  silently  looking  down  the  long 
stretch  of  ocean  front  of  Linda  Vista,  where 
many  sat  in  the  shadow  of  dreams.  "A  won 
derful,  wonderful  title,  'A  Beautiful  Land  of 
Dreams,'  "  he  mused  as  he  turned  and  looked 
down  over  the  crags.  "What  a  startling  con 
trast,"  he  thought,  for  bathers  were  making 
merry  in  the  surf,  and  not  far  along  the  con 
crete  promenade  there  seemed  to  be  another 
world  full  of  music  and  laughter. 

He  walked  slowly  to  the  incline  and  his  nos 
trils  dilated  as  he  smelled  the  seaweed  that 
came  ashore  on  the  mighty  waves  that  broke 
upon  the  rocks  and  partly  in  foam  rolled  over 
the  sands  and  quietly  seeped  back,  leaving 
shells  and  small  sea-life  that  gulls  feed  on. 


A  Few  Years  Later  159 

He  had  traveled  much  in  foreign  lands  since 
his  last  visit  to  California,  and  now  he  had 
come  again  to  the  Golden  West  in  search  of 
material  for  a  new  book  and  to  do  some  sketch 
ing.  He  was  not  a  fictionist,  but  a  lover  of  life 
and  the  beauty  of  nature,  and  to  him  it  was  all 
a  wonderful  picture,  for  sounds  like  sweet  tones 
from  an  instrument's  strings  came,  to  him  from 
the  waves,  and  the  landscape  was  always  a 
beautiful  blending  of  colors.  As  he  slowly 
walked  along  he  stopped  now  and  then  to  lis 
ten  to  the  hearty  laughter  of  children  playing 
on  the  sands.  Teddy  bears  and  dolls  were 
laid  aside  for  the  joy  of  building  caves  and 
houses  in  the  sand,  and  many  youngsters,  with 
the  spirit  of  war,  were  building  forts. 

He  listened  to  the  frolicsome  music  of  the 
merry-go-round,  and  stopped  at  booths  where 
games  of  chance  were  played.  Barefooted  fish 
ermen,  with  brawny  legs  and  necks,  were  pre 
paring  their  boats  for  an  early  morning  start. 
He  listened  to  the  dashing  of  water  on  the  pier, 
and  as  the  shadows  grew  longer  and  the  riot 
of  delicate  colors  gave  a  deeper  touch  of  ro 
mance  to  the  surroundings,  he  walked  on  in 
the  direction  of  Govante  Pier. 

He  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  the  quiet  of 
the  golden  afternoon,  and  then  continued  his 


160  Alone 

journey  a  few  yards  to  where  a  rustic  bench 
stood  facing  the  sea,  and  where  a  group  of 
young  boys  were  making  merry  in  the  surf,  and 
standing  on  the  sand  near  the  water  was  a  man 
who,  at  first  glance,  seemed  to  be  a  priest 
watching  over  the  bathers. 

He  wore  a  soft  wide  brim  felt  hat,  and  his 
robe  was  not  unlike  that  of  a  priest,  and  while 
Merle  sat  looking  with  much  interest  at  the 
happy  throng,  the  stranger  came  and  sat  on  the 
bench  where  he  was  resting.  Neither  one  spoke 
or  took  notice  of  each  other  for  some  time  and 
the  writer  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
He  had  noticed  the  odd  attire  of  the  man  who 
sat  beside  him,  but  that  was  all. 

"Are  these  boys  from  some  school?"  he 
asked,  as  he  pointed  to  the  group  of  happy 
young  fellows  in  bathing  suits,  some  lounging 
on  the  sand — some  plunging  into  the  surf. 

"They  are  boys  from  the  orphanage,"  was 
the  only  answer  to  his  question,  and  as  he  spoke 
he  did  not  turn  his  face  towards  where  the 
writer  sat. 

The  voice  of  the  speaker  attracted  Merle 
more  than  his  words,  and  he  quickly  looked 
up  to  the  stranger's  face.  The  man  was  in 
tently  watching  the  boys,  and  Merle  had  an 
opportunity  to  study  his  face  for  a  few  mo- 


A  Few  Years  Later  161 

merits,  and  each  moment  he  was  more  positive 
it  was  Arturo,  although  he  only  had  a  side  view, 
and  at  last  he  placed  his  hand  on  the  stranger's 
shoulder  and  spoke  to  him. 

"Is  this  Arturo  I"  was  all  he  said. 

When  the  young  man  heard  his  name  spoken 
he  turned  and  at  first  seemed  dazed,  and  then — 
without  speaking — threw  his  arms  around 
Merle,  and  for  some  time  both  were  silent,  and 
then  while  still  holding  fast  to  his  friend's  arm, 
Arturo  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice: 

"I  feel  that  I  have  met  God  face  to  face,  for 
it  was  you  who  saved  my  soul." 

"Arturo,  we  met  at  the  cross-road,  and  I  am 
glad  if  I  helped  you.  It  was  the  Great  Director 
working  through  me.  You  met  him  face  to 
face,  and  he  led  you  to  the  right  trail.  We 
three  were  alone  that  night." 

"Do  you  really  think  God  was  with  us  that 
night?" 

He  watched  Merle  as  he  intently  waited  for 
an  answer. 

"Yes,  Arturo;  I  felt  His  presence,  but  you 
did  not  understand." 

And  as  the  new  man  still  held  Merle  by  the 
hand,  he  smiled  and  said :  "  I  now  have  a  name, 
for  the  children  call  me  *  Father  Arturo. '  ' ' 

"What  children  do  you  mean?"  asked  Merle. 


162  Alone 

' 'The  children  from  the  orphanage,"  he  an 
swered,  and  pointed  to  a  large  brick  building 
back  on  the  hill.  "It's  a  home  for  children 
such  as  I  used  to  be."  And  then  he  told  of  his 
work  in  the  institution,  and  how  Father  Diaz 
had  given  him  the  uniform  he  wore  and  asked 
him  to  always  wear  it  or  one  similar. 

"I  have  been  here  for  three  years,  and  am 
now  at  the  head." 

"Tell  me  about  Father  Diaz,"  said  Merle, 
as  Arturo  finished  speaking. 

"We  laid  his  body  away  three  years  ago." 

"In  the  little  cemetery  at  the  Mission?" 
asked  Merle,  for  he  remembered  the  old  padre 's 
wish. 

"Yes,"  answered  Arturo,  and  then  again  sat 
in  silence  until  roused  by  the  writer,  but  before 
Merle  finished  his  question,  he  was  interrupted 
by  Arturo: 

"Mr.  Chapman,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  of 
his  kindness  to  my  mother?"  and  as  he  asked 
the  question,  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 

' '  I  wanted  you  to  see  for  yourself, ' '  and  then 
Arturo  told  of  his  journey  to  the  Mission  and 
of  Father  Diaz'  kindness  to  him,  and  how  he 
instructed  him  in  the  work  he  was  now  doing. 

"And  it  was  through  him  I  obtained  this  posi 
tion.  The  old  padre  and  I  fitted  up  the  little 


A  Few  Years  Later  163 

house  near  the  garden  gate — the  house  where 
my  mother  slept — and  it  is  now  a  resting  place 
for  anyone  who  may  come  along  and  wish  to 
lie  down  for  the  night.  Mr.  Chapman,  while  you 
are  here  in  the  west,  will  you  visit  me  at  the 
orphanage  I ' ' 

''I  shall  be  very  glad  to,  for  I  am  very  muck 
interested  in  your  work  for  you  are  giving  up 
self  for  the  betterment  of  mankind;  a  love  for 
humanity  and  a  desire  to  comfort  and  lead  souls 
that  otherwise  might  be  lost,  and  in  doing  so 
you  keep  on  giving  larger  and  larger  in  truth 
and  knowledge  of  life  and  the  love  of  the  beau 
tiful.  Ami  not  right?" 

"No;  not  exactly,"  he  said,  "for  I  have  not 
given  up  self;  I  have  entered  another  world 
and  my  happiest  hours  are  those  spent  in  lead 
ing  some  wandering  soul  from  the  path  that 
leads  through  Gethsemane." 

As  they  sat  talking,  Merle's  attention  was 
directed  to  a  feeble  old  woman  coming  towards 
them.  Arturo's  eyes  followed  in  the  direction 
Merle  was  looking,  and  with  a  sad  smile,  said: 

"That  is  Aunt  Mary.  I  am  told  her  mind 
failed  rapidly  after  that  dreadful  tragedy  at 
sea,  and  when  I  came  here  to  open  the  orphan 
age,  I  found  her  in  court  being  tried  for  in 
sanity.  'Salvation  Nell'  had  cared  for  her 


164  Alone 

many  months  before  I  came  back  but  ill  health 
compelled  her  to  give  up  the  task, — if  one  may 
call  it  that — I  am  sure  she  would  say  'An  act 
of  pleasure'  for  that  has  been  her  life  for  years 
— doing  for  others.  When  she  saw  me  in  the 
court-room,  she  broke  away  from  the  bailiff 
and  threw  herself  in  my  arms,  and  at  the  same 
time  repeatedly  called  me  'Albert,'  and  I  at 
once  knew  she  was  another  of  my  father's  vic 
tims,  and  I  remembered  the  many  odd  things 
she  used  to  do  years  ago.  She  would  often 
stand  and  watch  me  for  a  while,  and  then  with 
out  saying  a  word  walk  away,  and  I  have  often 
found  her  standing  looking  into  the  sea  near 
the  place  where  my  father  committed  suicide, 
and  when  this  all  flashed  through  my  mind,  I 
asked  the  judge  if  I  could  not  take  her  and  care 
for  her  at  the  orphange,  and  he  granted  my 
request,  and  while  I  was  asking  that  privilege 
of  him,  I  felt  that  in  a  small  way  I  might  do  a 
little  in  righting  one  of  my  father's  wrongs. 
She  always  calls  me  Albert,  and  insists  upon 
mending  my  clothes,  and  has  often  asked  me  if 
she  might  not  cook  for  me  things  to  eat." 

As  Merle  listened  he  said  to  himself:  "The 
true  love  of  a  woman." 

When  Aunt  Mary  reached  the  place  where 
they  sat  the  writer  spoke  to  her  as  he  arose, 


A  Few  Years  Later  165 

but  there  was  no  response  nor  sign  of  recogni 
tion,  for  her  mind  was  blank  as  to  the  past. 
Arturo  put  his  arm  around  her  shoulder  as  he 
talked  with  Merle,  and  as  confiding  as  a  child, 
the  old  woman  nestled  close  in  the  embrace  of 
his  protecting  arm  and  was  oblivious  to  the 
surroundings,  and  when  Arturo  looked  down  at 
her,  Merle  saw  a  wonderful  light  in  his  eyes. 
' '  The  knowledge  of  life  and  understanding  and 
what  one  can  do  if  they  will, ' '  he  mused.  ' '  He 
is  giving  rainbow  tints  to  the  twilight  of  the 
dear  old  soul's  life  here  on  this  earth." 

"Your  life  story,"  he  said,  as  Arturo  and 
Aunt  Mary  were  about  to  turn  in  the  direction 
of  the  orphanage,  "would  be  excellent  material 
for  a  book." 

Arturo  stopped  quickly,  and  again  Merle  saw 
that  wonderful  light  in  his  eyes  and  was  satis 
fied. 

"You  may  use  it  if  you  wish."  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  and  then  in  much  spirit  and  with  a 
happy  smile,  continued:  "And  in  using  it,  tell 
the  world  about  my  being  alone  on  the  desert 
and  how  through  you  God  showed  me  the  way 
to  a  path  where  my  soul  was  saved  and  led  to 
happiness."  And  as  he  finished  speaking,  he 
turned  and  with  one  arm  around  Aunt  Mary 
walked  away  in  the  direction  of  the  orphanage. 


166  Alone 

As  Merle  watched  them  pass  from  sight,  h< 
thought  of  how  "Real  happiness  lies  in  whal 
we  do  for  others,"  and  he  recalled  Aunt  Mary's 
words  "Isn't  life  beautiful?" 


THE  END. 


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